Operation Certain Death

by Kim Hughes

  Barbara Clifford-Brown gave an indulgent chuckle while Muraski waited.

  ‘Luckily the Robert Adam chapel out the back survived.’

  ‘Your point is?’ Muraski asked.

  The tone at the other end shifted to belligerent in a smooth change of gear. ‘If you light a fire, young lady, you can never control where it goes and what damage it does.’

  ‘Sound advice. Perhaps your husband should have taken it.’ Fuck, fuck, fuck. She should have played it cooler. ‘But, there’s another factor in play here—’

  ‘Nothing is in play,’ Barbara said firmly. ‘I am sure you mean well, but at our time of life we just want some peace and quiet. Goodbye, Miss Muraski. We shall not be speaking again.’

  The line went dead. The woman’s final sentence had been as much an instruction as a prediction.

  There was a rap on the door and Roger Altrincham reappeared. ‘Okay?’

  ‘I’m done,’ said Muraski rather tetchily.

  She gathered her things and walked out past a gaggle of keen-looking youngsters, all clutching yellow and purple-coloured files. New intake. If any of those got the Russia gig before her…

  She took a breath to calm herself. Every newbie got a talk from a senior manager in each department, to give them an overview of how this machine meshed – or sometimes clashed. Routine.

  As she walked down the corridor heading back to her desk, she tried Riley again. No answer. She left a message, giving her name, mentioning that she worked for ‘national security’, and asking him to call back as soon as he could.

  Then she turned on her heels and headed for the domain of Mr Jimmy Fu and his Doggs. Perhaps he could help her firm up the rather tenuous link she had discovered between the staff sergeant and Bravo-900 and probe Mr and Mrs Clifford-Brown, without her ever having to speak to them again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The occupants of the Mustang managed to extricate themselves from the car and stagger back into the school, edging past the smoking ruin of the VW as if it might leap up and bite them. There were two of them. The man was in his fifties, wearing age-inappropriate Supreme and Palace gear. The girl was about Ruby’s age, although Riley couldn’t tell much more because she had her hands over her face and was sobbing. He walked down the drive, hand up to shield himself from the heat of his smoking car, and escorted them back to the school. Most of the parents, teachers and pupils still on the premises had done as he had told them, and gone back inside. He could see faces pressed to the window, mouths wide with a mix of horror, curiosity and shock.

  He handed them over to Andy, who said he would take them to Matron. Riley had thought school matrons had gone the way of fagging and six-of-the-best, but apparently not. ‘Oh, and Andy,’ he said to the tank man as he pointed at the house. ‘Get everyone away from the windows, eh? Just in case.’ Andy nodded that he understood.

  Riley looked around for his daughter but couldn’t see her. She would also be somewhere inside. He wanted to find her and hold her again, more gently this time. But he squashed that instinct. Izzy would be with her. She was safe. Riley had to stay in ATO mode. Two bombs in two days. One of them apparently aimed at him? He had trouble getting his head round that, mainly because one thought dominated all the others ricocheting around his skull.

  They could have killed Ruby.

  Yes, Nick, and they’ll pay for that, whoever they are.

  While he waited for the emergency services, Riley checked his messages. A Kate Muraski had called. From ‘National Security’. Just the spooks ticking boxes. That could wait. He called Dobbo at the National Ordnance Disposal Operation Centre to dictate a ten-liner, as best he could. This would be sent to the EOD and RESA teams that were on the way. They would check the immediate surroundings and also give the remaining cars a clean bill of health. Or otherwise. Riley had done Izzy’s A-Class himself. It was clear. Then he had sent them off, as originally planned, to the Willow Grange hotel, saying he would join them later. That, he could tell Izzy knew, was extremely unlikely. There was work to be done. Izzy knew Riley wouldn’t take an attempt on his daughter’s life lying down.

  ‘Dobbo?’

  ‘Christ, I just heard. You okay?’

  ‘No drama. I’ll give you the run-down. Date today, time…’ He checked his watch and did a mental calculation as to when he first spotted the device… ‘Make it an hour ago. Say twelve thirty?’

  Line two, the grid reference of the device, which Dobbo said he would look up. Three was the description of the location; four, activity at site prior to find; five, the main PIC on the ground – the police contact (UNKNOWN). Line six, type of ordnance (again, not known yet) and line seven detailed the target/resources threatened, in this case Staff Sergeant Dominic Riley. Ruby, he suspected, would have been classed as ‘collateral damage’ had she got into the car.

  He’d give the bastards collateral damage when he found them. The anger rushed through Riley like a flash fire, hot and fast.

  Skills and drills, he reminded himself. Rage certainly had its time and place, but this wasn’t it.

  Line eight was mission requirement for the Royal Engineers and the Explosive Ordnance Disposal teams. In this case, make sure there was only one bomb – no secondaries on the VW, no other vehicles wired to blow. Nine was protective measure/action, which Riley suggested was evacuating the site of staff, pupils and parents and closing off the road that ran past the school to protect the public. Finally, ten was the priority level: IMMEDIATE, which was one below URGENT, which meant imminent threat to life. He was pretty sure it was a one-shot attempt, but it paid to be cautious.

  Once he’d finished up with Dobbo, he turned to see a convoy of police vehicles coming through the Service entrance and heading for the house. There was a helicopter, too, which had crabbed in from over the distant tree line. Of the drone, no sign. He looked around for Andy the Tank, but remembered he was inside. He hoped he was together enough to make sure those stranded by the event kept away from any potentially flying glass. Best place for him, given the chopper.

  A Jaguar pulled up outside the main entrance to the school and a senior police officer stepped out of the rear. A tall, lean man with a shaved head, he wrinkled his nose at the stink of burnt plastic and fuel that pervaded the school grounds. Riley was just glad he hadn’t had a full tank, otherwise The Heap would still be burning very bright indeed. The policeman straightened his uniform jacket before reaching into the rear of the Jag and fetching a cap, which he put on. By the time he had made himself presentable to the public and camera-ready, Riley was introducing himself with his rank and status.

  ‘Chief Inspector David Blair,’ the police officer shot back, his voice carrying the trace of a Caribbean accent. ‘I’ll be Police Incident Commander for the time being. You need any medical treatment?’

  Riley looked down at his suit. ‘Maybe a tailor, later. Otherwise I’m fine.’

  ‘You want to bring me up to speed?’

  Riley did so, succinct and to the point as always, with zero emotional content when he mentioned Ruby’s near-miss. That was busy stoking the furnace burning deep in his gut.

  ‘You think this is personal?’ Blair asked.

  Does the Queen keep Corgis?

  Was Nick right? Was he actually the target? If so, it was a change in MO from the recent carnage, so perhaps this wasn’t the same people as Nottingham. There, the bomber or bombers had gone for mass murder and injury. Here, one casualty instead of many. And a different kind of device. But that proved nothing. And trying to demoralise bomb squads by taking out one or more of its members was nothing new. In Iraq, Afghan, Ireland, even Washington DC and New York, it had been used as a tactic. Taking out an ATO was a calling card in the profession of bomb-maker. And the best EOD operatives were not without ego, which meant they could sometimes be lured into situations where they put themselves at risk. Riley had an old army pal, now an EXPO – Explosives Officer – in the Met, who considered robots and remote detonation ‘for pussies’. By r
ights such an attitude should have got Alex Stock killed by now. But he seemed to have as much luck as arrogance.

  ‘I can’t be certain.’

  Bollocks.

  ‘It seems too much of a coincidence to me. You were at Nottingham?’

  ‘Later stages.’

  ‘And then… this.’ He pointed to the remains of the Passat.

  To be fair, he did need a new motor.

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ he muttered.

  ‘What was that?’ Blair asked.

  ‘I said there was a drone. Just over there. I don’t know whether it was related to the incident or some local just joyriding his toy.’

  ‘Drones are not exactly uncommon these days,’ said Blair as he watched his officers set up the mobile incident room.

  ‘Yes, but there was a drone at Nottingham, too. I saw it. Thought it might be one of yours. Maybe the one here was to film me going up in smoke. There’s probably footage of Nottingham, too, waiting to be uploaded to some jihadist atrocity site on the internet.’

  ‘I’ll make sure someone is trawling the likely outlets. I am certain they will be. It’s a bloody nuisance about the Mustang setting the device off, though. Means it’s very unlikely there will be forensics.’

  ‘Better the Mustang than me.’ And Ruby, he added to himself.

  ‘Yes. Although you don’t seem too bothered.’

  ‘Oh, I’m bothered. In fact, I am completely fucked off. But I am also used to it. It’s my game. For the last year in Afghan they were after the ATOs. There was a price on our heads. Actually, it felt like there was a price on our legs. And they knew us all by name. I found an IED once with a message scratched into the wood of the pressure pad: Hello Riley, hope you have better luck than the last ATO.’

  ‘That’s pretty sick.’

  ‘The thing is, while they carry on trying to blow me up, I can handle it. Snipers, though. No thanks. Always hated being shot at. Snipers, they give me the willies. Better a bomb any time. No drama.’ He wasn’t joking, although most people always assumed he was, when he explained that explosive ordnance held little terror for him compared to unseen assassins.

  ‘No drama?’ Blair shook his head as he spoke. ‘You lot really are a breed apart, aren’t you?’ Riley couldn’t detect any admiration in the words, just bafflement.

  ‘So they say.’ He had given talks about how with, say, a sniper, the man with the rifle was in control of the situation too many times for them to repeat it. With an IED, Riley had the upper hand. If he died, it was his fault, his mistake. You couldn’t say that when a telescopic sight or a laser dot was trained on you. That was just bad luck. Being proactive, the one who decided your own fate – that was the important thing to Riley. ‘But what really, really pisses me off is that they put my daughter at very real risk.’ He let his rage bleed through a little. ‘I’ll have them for that,’ he growled.

  ‘We’ll have them, Staff Sergeant. It’s a team effort.’ Blair lifted his cap with his right hand and ran the left over his shaven head. He let out a great sigh, as if he had sifted the evidence and come to a monumental decision.

  ‘Of course, CTIU will want to hear all this again when they get here.’

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  His debrief would be the next stage, alongside the collection of evidence by the forensics team from the VW and its immediate area. He was sure he would have told the story half-a-dozen times before that day was out. Counter Terrorism Intelligence Unit would just be the first in the queue. And they would, as was their wont, go back to his days in the womb, just to be certain he didn’t make enemies while he was in there.

  ‘And, Staff Sergeant Riley, once your CTIU interview has been completed, I think we should confine you to quarters.’

  It took a moment for that to sink in. ‘What? You have no authority over me.’ He pointed at his chest. ‘Army, remember.’

  ‘I don’t need reminding. But I expect CTIU will speak to your CO.’

  ‘Will they fuck,’ he said, fighting and failing to keep the indignity from his voice. Putting him in lock-down meant he would be off the investigation altogether and that he would be unable to see Ruby. Neither was acceptable. ‘Why would you confine me to quarters?’

  ‘For your own safety. And other people’s. If a rogue bomber really is targeting you, we can’t let you wander the streets, at risk of being blown to bits. And therefore of injuring innocent bystanders. Like your child. You need a… what do you call it? A biff chit?’

  A biff chit was a note excusing a soldier from a specific activity for a set period of time. Riley, who had never had a biff chit in his life, thumped the side of his leg with his fist.

  ‘That’s not an option. My job is to be out there dealing with IEDs.’

  ‘And what if by being out there you are causing the bombs?’

  Riley thought for a second then nodded, knowing argument was useless. He needed to take a different tack. ‘Fair one. All right. I’ll do whatever CTU recommends.’ He pointed over his shoulder. ‘Is anyone coming to put that out?’

  Blair checked his watch. ‘Fire brigade are about two minutes out.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go and check on my family? My daughter nearly got caught up in that. She’ll be very shaken.’

  ‘They’re still here?’

  ‘Inside,’ Riley lied.

  Blair consulted his watch. ‘Don’t be too long. EOD and CTU will be here within ten.’

  ‘Roger that.’ Riley tabbed off purposefully, as if he really was going to find Izzy and Ruby.

  Confined to barracks, my arse.

  * * *

  The aerial footage showed the scorched car, the savagely cropped and singed shrubbery next to it and the shallow crater that the blast had excavated in the car park surface. The Volkswagen now lay on its side, steaming like a champion racehorse in the paddock. Most of the retardant foam that had once covered it had collapsed, leaving what looked like patches of snow on the bodywork and exposed chassis. The camera pulled back to show the surroundings, including the apparently undamaged gates and the garish American car marooned on its rear tyres. The media was clustered at one end of the B-road that led to the school, some pressed against the barriers, others up step-ladders. The TV image switched to a police officer approaching the media scrum. The bomb-maker turned the sound up.

  The policeman was in his early forties, bald, well turned out, wearing a crisp white shirt that looked fresh out of the box. He spoke with an accent the bomb-maker couldn’t place. He was filmed from the waist up, standing at a length of Do Not Cross tape. The occasional outstretched microphone or mobile came into view as he read from a prepared statement, concluding: ‘I am not going to speculate on any motive at this point. A full investigation is already underway, being carried out by local counter-terrorism officers with assistance from the Metropolitan Police. At this stage I will only confirm what we know happened. An improvised explosive device has been detonated at a school in the Cotswolds. Counter Terrorism Units and bomb squads were instantly notified of the incident. Some elements of the bomb-disposal teams were already in the vicinity and secured the area. At the same time, officers from the regular force, accompanied by trained firearms officers, were sent to help with the clearing of the school grounds and houses in the immediate vicinity, which was, thanks to the co-operation of the public and the school staff, achieved smoothly. The grounds were then searched by qualified technicians and no other explosive devices were discovered. There were no casualties of any kind within the school or its grounds.’

  He paused here, catching his breath as questions began from the unseen journalists, but raised his hand and his voice to silence them. ‘I would like to stress two things. One, it is not helpful to speculate whether this incident is connected to any other recent events. The various agencies will establish that in due course. Secondly, if anyone has any information about today’s events, they are urged to call the number now being shown on screen.’

  ‘At this stage does the
incident seem to be over?’ asked a male voice off camera.

  ‘As I said, I am not prepared to speculate. This area will remain sealed off for the foreseeable future while experts continue to sift for evidence. It is our priority to keep the public safe. Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to thank you very much for your time here and we will update you as and when fresh information is available.’

  ‘Was this a terrorist event?’ a woman shouted, but the policeman had already turned his back and was walking off.

  Another voice, German-sounding, barked over the sudden hubbub of scrupulously ignored queries. ‘How could someone plant a bomb in broad daylight?’

  The TV switched to the helicopter shots again. The bomb-maker turned the sound down once more. He leaned back on the sofa, snaked his arm around the lad and pulled him close. He kissed the top of his head, inhaled the scent of the shampoo he had used on his son’s hair that morning. The bomb-maker nodded at the screen and said with some pride: ‘We did that.’

  ‘Dead. Goner.’

  ‘No, not dead. Not this time. But soon, my son. Very soon.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Kate Muraski had decided she would meet Jamal after all. Always good to keep him sweet. He could be a very useful contact. Plus, she wanted to see if the fact that she had persuaded Jimmy Fu and his team to come on board by taking a look at the Clifford-Browns would impress him.

  She chose Ognisko Polskie, the Polish Hearth Club, on Exhibition Road in South Kensington for the meet. She sat in the elegant, high-ceilinged dining room which had recently been repainted in crisp white – the rather stern portraits of old soldiers who had founded the club now exiled to the bar – and ordered a plate of blinis and a vodka. She was starving, having failed to eat anything other than a packet of Quavers all day. She’d wait and see if Jamal would eat before ordering properly but she also wanted to get a hit of vodka before he got all finger-waggy or lip-pursey.