Nash was about to rush down the stairs to intercept Red Jacket but was intercepted himself. Six cops converged on his position, guns raised, shouting overlapping orders. It was then Nash realised he was holding a gun in one hand and a suicide vest full of explosives in the other. He gingerly placed both on the platform before him. Eva, who likewise held a gun and vest, did the same.
With hands raised, Nash asked, “Have you guys ever heard the phrase this isn’t what it looks like?”
The raised service revolvers and grim, fearful faces told him they had, and they didn’t particularly care for it.
Eva turned to Nash as she raised her hands. “May I suggest an apropos phrase at this juncture?”
“Please.”
“Twatnuggets.”
Chapter Eleven
Nash and Eva were roughly manhandled through the crowd. Bishop was treated at the scene by paramedics for suspected broken legs. Despite his bravado and charm, he was obviously in a lot of pain. Eva literally had to be torn away from him by the arresting officers.
As Eva and Nash were bundled into separate squad cars on 11th Avenue, Nash caught sight of an anguished looking Pinchot in the crowd. He took the pained expression on Pinchot’s face to mean he hadn’t succeeded in luring Cavendish to his death. Whatever twisted plot he’d concocted had failed. Nash only hoped Sophia and the rest of her team had survived getting in the way of Pinchot’s revenge.
When the police cars arrived at Midtown Precinct South, Nash was sped through processing under his fake credentials. After that, he was shoved into an interrogation room where he was interviewed by police of ever-increasing rank, to whom he told the same story over and over again. He was an innocent bystander and saw suspicious activity, so he intervened. The communication gear and untraceable gun in his possession did not exactly lend credibility to his story; nor did the fact that he’d been caught holding a suicide vest.
Providing a description of Red Jacket to a succession of increasingly disinterested police officers proved pointless. There was no evidence Double Denim had been found. Nash suspected she’d regained consciousness or been dragged away by Red Jacket before the site was secured. As far as the police were concerned, they had their perpetrators. Why take Nash at his word when he and Eva been found holding the bombs? Of course, terrorists would say anything once apprehended.
After a couple of intense hours being shouted at by New York cops who weren’t particularly fond of terrorists, Nash was left alone in the interrogation room. He was handcuffed to a stark metal table at the centre of the equally stark room, which was all white except for a mirror on one wall. After the clatter and jostling of his initial interrogations, it was deathly quiet. Nash was without water or food, and was beginning to feel light-headed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, or what country that had been in.
Nash stared at the one-way glass and gave an unimpressed frown. To whoever was on the other side of the mirror the sentiment was clear: you expect this to intimidate me?
He then heard slow, methodical footsteps outside the room. The door opened with a creak.
“We really must stop meeting like this.”
Nash was busy creating diamonds by the pure energy of his clenched jaw, and having a hard time coming up with a witty retort. Or any reply at all.
“Seems you’re forever destined to fall into my orbit, aren’t you, Mason Nash?” The newcomer closed the door behind him. He was dressed in an expensive navy Springfield Stripe Huntsman suit from Savile Row. He strode about the interrogation room with his customary arrogance. “It’s rather perplexing, given your level of ineptitude, how you’ve managed to elude me until now. You must be the luckiest son of a bitch to ever tarnish God’s green earth.”
Surprised the edge of the table didn’t snap in his fists, Nash glared at Ramsay Cavendish. In some ways, Nash was thankful for the restraints. Without them, every cell in his body screamed to leap up and tear the man apart with his bare hands. Pacifism be damned. His counterpart clearly sensed as much, keeping his distance despite the sturdy restraints.
Realising the one-way mirror could be used to his advantage, Nash said, “I don’t know how you managed to weasel your way in here, but your friends,” he gave the glass a wave, “should know this is all your doing. We stopped your insane plan.”
Cavendish let out a tiny chuckle. “Oh, no need to play to the cheap seats, my lad. There’s no one on the other side and no cameras are active. I’ve seen to it. No, you and I are very much alone.”
“You’re going to pay for everything you’ve done.” Receiving no response, Nash tried to calm his mounting anger. “You set up a terrorist attack to fuel your own rampant ego and lie to the world.”
Cavendish splayed a hand on his chest and gave a pantomime shake of his head. “Not me, my boy. You seem to have this mixed up. I didn’t orchestrate any of this.” He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a USB drive. “You see, I have evidence right here that the perpetrator of today’s unfortunate events wasn’t myself or indeed anyone remotely connected to my organisation. It points towards a group of four misguided and misled individuals.” He leaned over the table, alpha male seeping from his pores as liberally as his Clive Christian aftershave, then rocked back on his heels and rolled the USB between his fingers. “Although it’s only part of the story, of course. The other half is being manufactured as we speak by a team of highly experienced forgers—sorry, I mean to say researchers—who will find out who misled this little band of terrorists. Do you know who that individual would be? I have a disdain for cliffhangers, so I’ll tell you. None other than Mason Nash.” He moved his hand to his chest once more to mime disbelief. “Shocking I know, but when the perpetrator was discovered literally holding the bombs in question…” He tutted. “When the police are presented with that information, they’d have to be insane to come to any other conclusion, no?”
Nash wished he’d hidden a lock pick on his person to release him from the handcuffs.
“Although it’s a bit redundant now, unfortunately. I won’t be able to use it. Your friend Harriet has done an impressive job of trying to win your freedom.”
That surprised Nash, though he tried not to show it. “Who?”
“Subtle.” Cavendish groaned. “Harriet Gorton, or as you call her, Harry. She quickly scoured all social media and whatnot and created a surprisingly clear narrative that you and your little band of do-gooder idiots should be viewed as the heroes, not the villains. There’s Instagram footage of you taking the woman’s suicide vest from her and then heroically bounding up the stairs, where they have you on closed-circuit vision—which she obtained illegally, of course—negotiating with the actual terrorist before Charles Bishop bravely or recklessly, I can’t decide which, leapt onto the actual terrorist. She very quickly instigated a social media storm and suddenly thousands of accounts were crying that the noble heroes had been wrongly accused and whatnot. A small crowd even formed outside this very station chanting for your release. It’s made this,” he twirled the USB in his fingers before returning it to his pocket, “superfluous. Shame. It really was quite compelling.”
“Seems I owe Harry a beer.”
“After all that I’d say she’s earned a vineyard.”
“Fair.”
“She’s mighty resourceful, that friend of yours. She’s managed to evade us for quite some time, not an insignificant effort given the experts we have on staff. I’d be inclined to make her a job offer if she wasn’t so tangled up in your do-gooder crusade.” Cavendish inspected his faultless fingernails. “Pity her efforts were all for nothing.”
The faint glimmer of hope was already fading, given Cavendish’s condescending tone.
“It was all a very noble attempt, of course,” he offered, “but for one slight, and I mean really very minor, aspect.” Cavendish’s thin lips parted in delight. “You’re all the most wanted spies on the planet. As soon as I walk through that door the authorities will be told as much. Frankly I’m astonished they haven’t come to the conclusion themselves yet, but you know, the wheels of bureaucracy and all that.”
“Why not before?” Nash asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Why didn’t you tell them before you came in?”
“Because, my dear boy, it give us a chance to have a chat, doesn’t it? Right now, you’re just a suspected terrorist, albeit on shaky ground, but as soon as they identify you as the perpetrator of so many other crimes across the globe, every major agency will want their pound of flesh and I won’t get a look in.”
“Your crimes, you mean?”
“Pinchot’s crimes, let’s not quibble.”
Nash gave Cavendish a leer, which seemed to surprise him. “He’s coming for you, you know.”
“Who is?” Cavendish asked. “Pinchot? He’s dead.”
