by Ted Tayler
“Both targets are in the Gallery. Where are you?”
Colin looked around for a clue. A clock above him ticked over to 11:13.
“Chestnut Plaza, heading for The Street, by the looks of it, Do I keep heading in this direction?”
“Roger that. I’m near Cherry Park Lane by Marks and Sparks. I’ll keep an eye out and if the CCTV picks them up again, they’ll let me know where they are heading. I will call you; but if they keep moving the way they are now, I’ll be behind them and we’ll have them trapped.”
“Just keep your gun out of sight until we need to use it, mate. There are too many people around in here.”
“OK, Phoenix, I’ll keep my cool don’t worry.”
Brad rang off. His earpiece crackled at once.
It was from Giles. “Habibi no longer has his bag; repeat, Habibi no longer has his bag.”
“Shit,” swore Brad. He rang Phoenix.
“One bomb has been deployed in the building, either on the second or third floor. I’m calling my crew to track it. I sent them up that way already; maybe this is our lucky day.”
“OK, Brad, I got that. I am outside Hugo Boss, no sign of anyone as yet.”
“I’ve seen them. They’re running towards you. Something spooked them. I’m in pursuit.”
Brad and Colin ran. Farooq and Aaleyah had vanished. As the two agents met, breathing hard, they looked around them wildly, searching for movement of two purple and red shapes.
“How did we miss them?” said Brad.
Colin turned back and looked up The Street. The place was heaving. Eleven fifteen in the morning, with the Olympics in full swing; it was only natural the place would be full of people.
Brad received a message in his earpiece. He breathed a sigh.
“They found the pipe bomb. Timer set for twelve o’clock. It has been disarmed.”
“Thank God,” said Phoenix, “one down, one to go.”
All of a sudden Brad pushed past him and sprinted.
“There they are, in the middle of the walkway. I’ve no idea where they were hiding. It could have been any of the shops along here.”
Shoppers, sightseers, spectators, plus the odd mildly interested security guard watched as the two agents barreled along the gangway towards the two Games Makers.
“Take the lad,” called Phoenix, “I’ve got the girl.”
Farooq and Aaleyah realised they couldn’t escape. They stopped running. The two agents caught them up and grabbed their arms.
“Neither of them has a bag, Brad,” shouted Colin.
“Where have you put it?” demanded Brad.
“Where have we put what,” said Aaleyah with a defiant look, “what’s it to you anyway, you aren’t coppers?”
Brad scanned the gathering crowd of onlookers. They needed to remove these two out of here pronto. He called the driver on standby in the van and told him to expect company. Then he contacted the agents upstairs.
“We have another device on the ground floor. We know roughly which part of The Street it has been left in, but no idea when it’s due to blow. Get here right away.”
Colin watched the two students being bundled out of the shopping centre. With luck, the youngster would crack first and tell them where they placed the second bomb. She looked a tough cookie. He took his phone out of his pocket and sent Therese a text.
‘I’m running late; something cropped up. I hope to meet up with you soon.’
Seconds later, he got a reply.
‘OK, see you xxx.’
Colin consulted his watch once more. It was 11:20. It had been a long time since breakfast. He looked around. He was sure he passed a café earlier.
“I’m going back to get some grub and a drink,” he said to Brad.
Brad nodded. His agents trotted up to him. The bomb disposal expert collared Brad straight away.
“There’s not enough time. It’s not possible to search every one of these units. We have to evacuate the building. I have rung the police and told them there’s a bomb in the litter bin by the casino. I told them it’s detonating at noon. Any minute now the alarms will sound and the tannoy system will get people moving out of the building. They can’t risk it, they have to evacuate, even if they think it might be a hoax. There are far too many people in here. Hopefully, the other one is on the same timing device as the one I disarmed. If the bombers talk, then we can ring again and tell the police where to look for the second device. They can get the army bomb disposal people in to deal with it. They have thirty minutes if we’re lucky. The police are on call for the Olympic Park, anyway.”
“A good call, pal,” said Brad, “we had better head back to the van. I’ll just ring Phoenix to update him.”
Brad sent Phoenix a text message and followed his crew outside to the van.
As Brad reached the outside door, he got a reply.
“I got a chicken tikka masala mate, sorry if it stinks the van out, but I’m starving.”
The clock ticked on to 11:30; all hell broke loose.
Colin shook his head. His ears were ringing.
The blast had come from twenty, thirty yards behind him and to his left. He had just left that café. The same café was full of customers enjoying a bite to eat and a cool drink on a warm summer’s morning. Happy, smiling customers; blissfully unaware that someone would leave a bomb on a chair, or under a table, set to go off at half-past eleven. Someone who would then leave with their companion and abandon them to their fate.
As Colin moved on unsteady legs towards the café, he recognised the familiar charcoal-like smell of gunpowder mixed with blood and burned flesh. It was thick and bitter, overpowering everything. He tasted it in his mouth.
When he handed the young girl on the till the money for his sandwich and a can of coke, she had smiled. As she placed his change in his outstretched hand, her fingers had felt so small, soft, and warm. She trailed her fingers lightly across his palm and giggled as he turned to walk away.
Colin recalled the small group of people standing just outside the café, deciding what to get, and who went in to buy it. He pictured the elderly couple in the corner nursing their cups of tea; just people watching. In the middle of the room, the tables full of parents with young children. The noisy teenagers he stared at who sprawled over a table by the back wall. Why hadn’t he seen a Games Maker bag?
He stood now where the gaily curtained windows and the doorway had been. His head was clearing. Colin forced himself to remember, but he knew he had not seen a flash. He heard a noise though similar to a firecracker. That had struck him most. He had felt no heat; no rush of wind. The blast had thrown him forwards onto his hands and knees.
Outside the devastated café, there were people like himself, confused, shaken, and walking around in circles, wondering what had happened. Colin saw a few people picking themselves up from the walkway with bloody faces.
Inside, bodies lay scattered on the floor of the cafe. Although it seemed as if the bomb had to have exploded ages ago, only a minute had passed. The coppery, bitter smell of blood invades Colin’s nose. The old chap in the corner tried to put out the flames on his wife’s back. As Colin looked at what remained of her face, her husband’s efforts were a waste of time.
The tables where the families sat had gone too. What remained were shattered tables and chairs. Body parts were thrown everywhere. There did not appear to be any survivors in this part of the café. Colin swallowed hard and switched his attention to the back wall. The teenagers were unnaturally quiet. The tableau surreal; one had lost both her legs. She might still be alive; her mouth open, but so far she could not seem to decide whether she wanted to scream or not. Her three companions sat in the same positions as he left them. The shards of wood and slivers of glass that sliced through arteries penetrated brains, and vital organs had wiped away forever any thoughts of a gap year.
Staff members appeared from the rear of the building. They were kitchen staff. They picked their way through the rubble, in shoc
k at the horror in front of them. One of the chefs called out a name and dropped to his knees behind the remains of the counter.
“Ally,” he screamed.
Colin was there in seconds. The young man was hysterical. The pretty girl who flirted with him minutes ago sat on the floor. She had lost her right forearm; the fingers she trailed across the palm of his hand had been blown away. Colin could still feel the sensation of her light affectionate touch; he fought to keep control of his emotions. The stump was covered in black blood.
Colin knelt by the young chef and beckoned to one of his colleagues.
“Look after this lad mate will you? Try to calm him. Help will arrive soon.”
Ally breathed heavily; she looked up at him.
“Am I going to die?”
Colin reassured her as best he could. He grabbed a shredded tablecloth, ripped it further for makeshift tourniquets, and tied them around the remains of her arm to stem the bleeding. Her outfit of a blue and white t-shirt and white skirt blackened from the blood and ash.
The euphoria of the Games and the cheers of the crowds for the medal winners seemed so far away. Colin heard no national anthems, nor cries of encouragement for runners or swimmers; there were no flags waving or bunting fluttering in the breeze. He could hear sirens. He heard alarms. Colin could hear the screams of people in pain. He heard a tannoy announcement, telling people to stay calm and to evacuate the building.
Colin stayed with Ally until the police and paramedics arrived. They started work on her at once. Ally was still breathing when they loaded her on a trolley and whisked her away in an ambulance.
Colin sat on the floor where the counter had been and spotted the cash till for the first time. It was embedded in the wall.
Brad found Colin still sat on the floor in the café.
“Time to go my friend; the centre is being evacuated. This place will be crawling with police, paramedics, the military and the media in no time flat. We need to make ourselves scarce. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
Two minutes later, they sat in the van trying to drive away from the shopping centre. Traffic was gridlocked; police and emergency services everywhere. Thousands of people had been let into the Olympic Park just to clear them away from the buildings. Brad and Colin knew both bombs were accounted for. Sadly, they had been unsuccessful in avoiding any bloodshed.
“Any joy with those two kids in the back?” asked Colin.
“We have had tears from the boy. The girl isn’t saying a word. We found two phones on each of them. One looks as if it was for their personal use. The other only had a few messages on it. All in their Inbox, brief coded messages. No outgoing calls. We have a problem, Phoenix. They either had a handler who sent them in to bomb the Westfield, that we still need to find, or they are not the only bombers on the ground today.”
“We’re certain there’s no connection between these two and Salah in Dorset?”
“Larcombe is convinced he’s a lone gun. We can’t be sure they aren’t part of a cell, though.”
Colin looked at his watch. It showed 11:50.
“If there are others, they might not be Games Makers. It’s possible they wandered around in the building too in ordinary clothes. If they planted their bombs, then in ten minutes the Westfield could be a mess, but at least, it will be empty.”
“If there are others and they’re in the Park, then tens of thousands of people are in the firing line. The plain fact of the matter is that we can’t help them.”
Colin’s phone vibrated.
Another text message from Therese.
‘Hurry, the horses are lovely,’.
At Greenwich Park, the morning’s dressage session of the Grand Prix was well underway. The weather fine and dry. Stands of temporary seating packed with thousands of spectators in good spirits. The atmosphere electric. British competitors had done well in front of their flag-waving, cheering fans.
Spider-Man and Roadrunner stood at their posts, directing people to first aid centres, and toilets; they helped late arrivals to find their seats.
Munaf Mansoor kept looking at his watch. It read 11:52.
Abdul Bashir helped an elderly woman back to her seat.
“Thank you, dear,” she gushed, “you Games Makers are doing such a wonderful job, we are so grateful.”
Abdul was embarrassed. He scuttled away as soon as possible. It was 11:53.
In Weymouth at 11:53, Khadim Salah and Shamila Javed shuffled through the security gates onto the beach. Traffic had been heavy, and they took several minutes to get to the seaside resort and find a parking space. The streets teemed with holidaymakers, locals, and Olympics’ visitors.
It was eighteen degrees, with a twenty-knot breeze. It was sunny and dry.
“This way sir, madam,” said an attendant at the gate.
“I’m afraid you won’t be able to take that through, sir,” he said to Khadim.
Khadim removed a sheath from his belt.
“This is a ceremonial dagger; here, keep it for me. I shall reclaim it from you when we return.”
The queue behind them grew longer and more frustrated. They wanted to run onto the beach, to join in the fun.
“Come on granddad, get a move on, let them through,” someone shouted from behind Khadim.
“Do you mind if my female colleague searched the lady, sir?”
Khadim had prepared for this. He pushed forward.
“Is it not disrespectful enough you hold these Games during Ramadan? You also want to manhandle my female companion and me; this is discrimination.”
Seconds later, Khadim, Shamila and several of the people in the queue behind had been rushed through the gate and onto the sands. The crowds still milled around. There was a real buzz on the Live Site and Khadim was now where he wanted to be.
Shamila lost sight of him in the scramble to find a spare piece of sand; she stood fifteen yards to his right, surrounded by happy smiling people, waving flags. Everyone jostled her, and she got a few stern looks and an elbow in the ribs when she tried to push her way towards her man.
It was 11:57
Colin and Brad still edged their way through the traffic in Stratford, inching their way further away from the Westfield. Giles contacted Brad.
“I’ve got an update on the students. Farooq Habibi, the video star, and Aaleyah Fayad attend London Metropolitan and Queen Mary University, respectively. They have known associates. Habibi is a member of the Islamic Society at university and is believed to have been recruited by Munaf Mansoor. Fayad was friendly with Abdul Bashir at QMU. Mansoor and Bashir are Games Makers volunteering at Greenwich Park. Both signed in as normal this morning.”
“Greenwich Park?” asked Brad.
“What about Greenwich Park? Colin asked.
It was 11:58.
“It could be trouble,” said Brad.
On the beach, Khadim Salah anxiously waited for the clock to reach noon.
Jack Mould breathed slowly and steadily.
Kelly Dexter sat in the driver’s seat of the van; alongside her was Hayden Vincent.
The Samaritan's logo on the sides of the van persuaded a warden to let them park on The Esplanade for fifteen minutes.
“Don’t let me find you here when I walk back,” she said.
“Don’t worry, you won’t. Thank you for being a star,” Kelly had replied.
The view from the van was perfect. Jack waited.
“Do you have a clear shot, Jelly?” asked Hayden.
“Affirmative,” replied Jelly.
“Whenever you’re ready,” said Hayden.
At Greenwich Park, Spider-Man typed a text to Roadrunner, Popeye, and Olive Oyl.
He pressed send.
“632.”
Khadim Salah knew nothing of Munaf Mansoor and his coded signals. He had his own timetable. He edged his hand towards the buttons of his tunic. It was time to trigger the bomb. Khadim’s hand trembled, but he held his nerve.
Roadrunner was the only
one to receive the call from Spider-Man. The phones belonging to Popeye and Olive Oyl rang, but no one answered.
One of Brad’s crew alerted him from the rear of the van and relayed the message.
“I wonder what ‘632’ stood for?” said Brad.
Colin looked at his watch. It was almost twelve.
“Boom?” he said.
The big screens at Weymouth broke away from showing events at sea; there was a lull in the racing. They switched to Greenwich Park for an update on the Grand Prix dressage.
Jelly Mould saw Khadim Salah tense. His rifle pointed through a modified air vent on the side of the van. At this distance, he could not miss. He fired.
Shamila had moved to her left, still trying to push her way through the crowds to get back to Khadim. It was slow going. She spotted him. His head exploded. Shamila collapsed to her knees screaming. Blind panic replaced the happy atmosphere, as people desperately tried to escape, anywhere away from the nearly headless body, which stained the golden sands. Dozens of people were hurt in the stampede.
Two pairs of hands scooped Shamila Javed up from the sand and got her up the steps and onto The Esplanade. They bundled her into the back of the van. Hayden Vincent joined her and Jack Mould on the inside.
Kelly Dexter pulled away from the kerb and threaded her way through the traffic as it slowed to a crawl. Drivers ahead of her desperate to discover what had caused the commotion on the beach.
The stretch of beach that was home to the Live Site lay deserted, apart from Khadim’s body and his jacket bomb.
In minutes, the police, the emergency services, and men in suits from the secret service descended on The Esplanade like flies.
The big screen still showed images from Greenwich Park.
Spider-Man and Roadrunner had moved into their agreed positions at either end of one of the open stands. They had set their timers to twelve noon.
Therese Slater sat near the end of the row with an empty seat beside her as she watched the latest competitor in the ring.
She had almost given up on Colin.
