Black List by Will Jordan

pocket and held out a cell phone to Alex. It was a cheap prepaid burner; the kind of thing available everywhere from supermarkets to convenience stores for £20 or less. ‘Consider it a gift.’
    Alex frowned. ‘From who? You?’
    The man’s broad mouth split into a nicotine-stained grin. ‘No offence, my young friend, but you ain’t exactly my type. Know what I mean? Some bird outside asked me to give you this.’
    ‘A woman?’ Alex repeated. ‘Who was she?’
    ‘Secret admirer, maybe? I dunno, mate. And to be honest, I couldn’t give a monkey’s toss. But she paid me a tenner for the privilege, so here’s your phone.’ He nodded to the session timer at the top right of Alex’s computer monitor, which had by now counted down to zero. ‘Looks like you’re out of time.’
    Saying nothing more, he turned away and ambled back out of the cafe, returning to his normal life as if nothing had happened. Within a couple of days he’d have forgotten the encounter even took place.
    For Alex however, it was about to change his life forever.
*
    The room was a hive of activity now as technicians and analysts hurried from terminal to terminal, shouting instructions and requests for more information across the office. Their voices mingled with the click of computer keys and the bleep of phones as work was hastily rerouted to other areas, tasks reprioritized and attention focussed on their new mission. They were in crisis mode now, all of the formidable resources that this room commanded being brought to bear against a single objective.
    Yorke surveyed the organized chaos around him, his pulse racing as he pondered whether or not it would be enough to get the job done. As senior department head, their hunt for the mysterious perpetrator trying to use a disavowed Agency identity was his responsibility. Failure would likely have dire consequences for his career.
    ‘Where are we on British security?’ he called out. ‘Are they moving yet?’
    ‘They’re scrambling their field teams now, but it’ll take a few minutes to get them moving,’ one of his subordinates reported, covering her phone with one hand so she could speak. ‘Local police have been informed and are converging on the scene. They’ll form a perimeter before security service agents move in.’
    All of which would take time to organise, not to mention the fact that it was virtually impossible to lock down even a single block in a densely packed city like London. ‘What about our own field agents?’
    It was the turn of a balding, slender East Asian man to respond. ‘No good, sir. Our nearest ground teams are at the US embassy. It’ll take at least twenty minutes for them to be on the scene.’
    ‘Fuck,’ Yorke said under his breath. ‘Air assets?’
    ‘The Brits won’t let us fly drones over their airspace. We’re checking with the National Reconnaissance Office to find out if any of our satellites are over the area, but no word yet.’
    As if in response to the growing tension in the office, the secure door leading from the corridor outside beeped once as a card was swiped through its electronic reader, then swung open to reveal a man whose appearance briefly halted all conversation.
    Most of the technicians working there had only encountered Marcus Cain, the Deputy Director of the CIA, in passing, perhaps seeing him from a distance entering some high-level briefing or leaving the headquarters building flanked by security personnel. He was aloof and enigmatic, almost a mythical force amongst the Agency’s rank and file staff. Most of the people in that room had never so much as spoken to him, never mind had to go about their jobs with him standing over them. The fact he was here now only reinforced the gravity of the situation.
    Taking a breath to calm himself, Yorke took a step forward to greet him. ‘Director Cain, it’s an honour to have you here.’
    Cain neglected to shake his hand. ‘Cut to the facts. What do we know so far?’ he asked,