by Emma Jameson
Duncan slumped and went still. The sudden loss of tension made Tony overbalance. He staggered backward, calf hitting a low barrier.
“No!” Kate screamed. “The edge!”
Somehow, he righted himself. The wind ruffled his hair as he looked out over London. It was immense; ancient; his. When he turned, his left eye saw nothing, but his right saw his wife clearly enough. She was trying to come to him, but there were no handholds within reach and her injured leg wouldn’t support her.
Something primal swept through him. He heard an animal sound, a guttural roar that belonged in the jungle but came from within. Seizing Sir Duncan’s body, he lifted it over his head and pitched it into the darkness.
Knees… hurt….
Of course they did. He’d fallen to them, the better to gasp for breath. Rage had given him the strength to cast down his enemy, the man who’d hurt Kate. Perhaps love would give him the strength to crawl to her side. He wanted to say goodbye to her before the top of the Dolphin’s North tower exploded.
The sound announced the helicopter before he saw it: a black and yellow NPAD EC145 passing overhead. It hovered above the Dolphin, its spotlight picking out one person standing on the roof of its tallest tower, and a row of what must’ve been the DEFRA hostages near an air conditioner unit. As the ops commander barked instructions at the people on the roof, another helicopter swooped in from the south. To Tony, the EC145 was a marvel, as heart-stoppingly beautiful as only deus ex machina could be. It was quieter than the Met’s original air support unit, with a big cabin capable of delivering a nine-man team, or rescuing a handful of people all at once.
A lightly kitted-out officer descended from copter to roof via fast rope. The moment he touched down, he ran toward the hostages—and the bomb. To Tony, it seemed like a lifetime had passed between breaking out of the handcuffs to tossing Sir Duncan’s corpse off the roof. Had the IED failed to detonate? Or was the timer still counting down?
Chapter Twenty-Two
“Give me the key to the handcuffs.” Paul thought he sounded remarkably rational. He was only barking orders at Kyla. What he really wanted to do would get him banged up for GBH. Or murder. “If you help me free the hostages, I’ll let you go when we reach the street. You can do a runner, I swear.”
“You’re lying. Besides. I don’t have it. Aaron or one of the boys took it with them when they legged it.” Rising, Kyla smiled as if her lip wasn’t bleeding and her front tooth wasn’t chipped. Always poised, right down to her marrow.
“Fine. But you’re not going back down those stairs,” Paul warned. “You’ll stay right here with me and the hostages and we’ll go to kingdom come together.”
Kyla’s smile didn’t flag.
“Is that what you want? Is that how you really want this to end?”
“Angels don’t die. Heaven is deathless. As above, so below.”
“That’s gibberish.”
“To you. I’m among the initiated.” Sliding her hands into her lavender wig, Kyla pulled it off, dropping it onto the gritty rooftop. The mesh cap over her real hair made her skull look bumpy. “Do you know how a caterpillar becomes a butterfly?”
Paul looked at her iPhone’s countdown clock. 00:04. Did he hear the throaty whirr of NPAD helicopters? Or was that just wishful thinking?
“The caterpillar,” Kyla said louder, apparently determined to have her say whether he cared to listen or not, “wraps itself in a cocoon. Inside the cocoon, it liquefies. That’s the only way to attain a superior form. Complete destruction. Duncan has to die. If not tonight, soon. He’ll go above and return below. Elegant. Terrestrial to winged to terrestrial again.”
She reached into one of her thigh-high boots. Paul dropped into his ready stance. Laughing, she peeled off the boot and tossed it aside.
“Believe me, if I had another knife, or maybe a gun, you’d already be dead.” Peeling off the other boot, she dropped it near its deflated twin. “I was a champion, you know. But I never did it in boots.”
Before Paul could puzzle out what she meant, Kyla spun on her heel and sprinted away. He was too shocked to cry out, and too stunned to go after her. At least, that’s how he told the story afterward, to himself and to others.
Kyla reached the tower’s waist-high concrete ledge. Vaulting it, she balanced atop it for a split-second. Then she executed a straight forward dive into thin air, hands folded for a splashless entry.
“Look!” Neera cried.
“Helicopter,” Jeremy said. “Helicopter!”
The spotlight from India 98 fell upon Paul, momentarily washing out his vision. As the EC145’s yellow landing skids and black fuselage became visible, a thick braided rope was tossed from the open cabin. Sliding down via gloved hands and feet, an operative descended with astonishing speed. Behind him came three more men. They were dressed in light gear, just fatigues and side arms.
Paul had expected Kevlar-armored, hooded-suit-wearing Explosive Ordinance Disposal techs. On telly, EODs were slow-moving blobs who advanced deliberately toward the bomb while others ran the other way. Then again, fictional EODs rarely dropped out of the sky via fast rope. Besides, the words “pink mist” were no exaggeration. If the Super-Semtex IED was as potent as he feared, body armor would be about as effective as sunblock.
“Saw the girl go over. Some geezer got pitched off Leadenhall, too,” the lead operative shouted at Paul.
Did he say geezer?
Paul convinced himself he’d heard the operative wrong. The whir of helicopter blades was thunderous. And Tony couldn’t have died that way, he just couldn’t.
“You’re Paul, yeah? Fancy a flight?” The man’s kit looked like Army, not MPS, but with SO19, the lines blurred.
“I promised the hostages I’d stay till the end.”
“Soppy tosser.” The operative pulled a pair of compact, heavy-duty snips from his belt. “I’ll free them. Stay planted.”
India 98 was on the move. Less than fifty feet above them, its pilot seemed to be assessing the North tower’s roofscape, searching for a place to set down. The copter’s whirring blades drew up clouds of rooftop grit. Paul threw up an arm to shield his eyes as a hot gust of particulate blew into his face. When he dared look, the operative with metal snips was freeing Neera.
She leapt up the moment her handcuffs were severed. Next came Jeremy, flexing arms that must have been stiff and sore, and Edwin, who clung to Jeremy like he might faint.
The two EODs closed in on the bomb. One had a hand-held device that reminded Paul of a Star Trek tricorder; the other, some kind of tablet. They didn’t seem to be in a particular hurry. He knew EODs were methodical and cautious–the living ones, anyway—but why drop in like superheroes only to stand there?
“Paul!” Neera threw her arms around him. Closing his eyes, he held her tight. He felt absurdly that she understood him.
Overhead, the copter wheeled, apparently unable to land. For an aircraft that could carry roughly ten people, its fuselage was remarkably compact. But the jutting tail boom and tail rotors extended too far for the copter to land without smacking into a water reservoir or one of the tower’s bulky antennae.
How much time?
The air was still thick with grit. Fanning it away, Paul advanced only a few steps—enough to make out 00:02 on the timer—when the operative who’d used the metal snips shouted, “Okay, ladies and gents, this is how we’re doing it. One at a time.” Seizing Neera’s upper arm, he jerked her away from Paul.
The EC145 dipped low beside the very stretch of roof off which Kyla had thrown herself. Defying the wind, the pilot kept the copter hovering with admirable steadiness, the aircraft bobbing gently as she adjusted and readjusted. The cabin door was wide open. The bright yellow landing skids, though in constant motion, remained just a few inches above the concrete guardrail, forming approximate steps.
“Your chariot awaits,” the operative shouted at Neera. “Don’t you worry, that bird’ll stay put. My CO’s at the stick and she’s dead bril
l. See that great prat holding out his arms? That’s my mate, Devin. Run to him!”
Neera shot a glance at Paul. Then she was running full-tilt at India 98, jumping onto the guardrail and tripping on the lower landing skid.
“No!” Paul cried.
But Devin wasn’t having it. Catching her under the arms, he pulled Neera into the copter with ease.
Jeremy made a better job of the jump, clambering aboard India 98 mostly under his own steam. Then Edwin ran for it, lost his nerve before the jump, and had to be half-coaxed, half-dragged inside the aircraft.
Paul glanced at the EODs. Two were still consulting the tablet-sized device. The one who’d approached the bomb put down something and backed away.
The operative swatted Paul between the shoulder blades, shouting, “Go! Go!”
Then Paul was running, legs pumping, eyes locked on Devin. He didn’t imagine the jump. He imagined the concussion, the scorching heat and blinding light that would inevitably vaporize him seconds before he reached safety. Wasn’t that how his luck always ran?
Not this time. His right foot bounded off the lower landing skid, propelling him up. Devin didn’t catch him so much as Paul caught him, latching onto his fatigues like a tick jumping onto a spaniel. Pivoting, Devin flung Paul against a solid object that turned out to be Neera.
I’m alive. I’m still alive.
Before he could come to grips with that, the lead operative collided with him, courtesy of another Devin pivot. All three EODs followed, rocking the EC145 like a ferry taking on extra passengers.
“Countercharge!” one of the EODs told the pilot.
“Roger that.”
The copter shot up. Then it banked sharply as something exploded below.
No one spoke. One EOD, leaning slightly out the cabin door as his fellows kept him anchored, seemed to be counting under his breath. After what felt like an interminable interval, but was probably only thirty seconds, he addressed the pilot.
“IED null, ma’am.”
“The bomb exploded?” Edwin looked wrung out, long past tears.
“They blew up the detonator,” Neera told him.
“But that would have set the bomb off.”
“No, Edwin, the detonator would have set the bomb off. Take away the detonator and the bomb’s inert.” She turned to Paul. “Right?”
He had no business answering. Most of his training regarding IEDs could be summarized in two words: consult SO19. He hadn’t mentally worked it out like Neera. Maybe she’d contemplated her career history of bomb threat in-services while handcuffed to that pile of explosives. Or maybe her Netflix queue was nothing but thrillers.
The lead operative poked Paul in the ribs. Apparently, that was his cue to agree.
“Yes. Countercharge nullified the detonator,” he told Neera. “Well done, you.”
“Scotland Yard knows his stuff,” the operative said humbly. Talk about a good bloke. Not only did he play angel of deliverance, he played wingman, too.
“What’re you called?” Paul asked him.
“Me? Oscar.”
“Oscar. Thanks for saving my life.” He looked at Neera, Jeremy, and Edwin. “Our lives.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“NPAD loaded them all,” Tony told Kate. “I’d need field glasses to swear it, but Paul must have been with them.”
He’d made it to his wife’s side just as the air rescue began. A smart man would have tried to drag her toward shelter from the coming blast, if such a thing existed. But Tony lacked the strength. His face hurt, his head hurt—everything hurt, really. And a creeping fuzziness made any action seem impossible.
“Can they reach minimum safe distance?” Kate asked. Sitting up with her injured leg straight out, she couldn’t see over the low wall.
“Let’s see.” India 97 looked good. But India 98, weighed down with its human payload, was still close to the North tower when something went boom and a cloud of white smoke came up.
“Oh, God! Was that it?”
“No. It must have been a countercharge. SO19.” He tried to think of a phrase profound enough to express his gratitude to that command, but the creeping fuzziness was clogging up his brain. All he could do was repeat the name of the antiterrorist branch more slowly, pronouncing the designation like a benediction. “SO19.”
The whirr of copter blades went from loud to near-deafening. Brilliant white light flooded the roof as India 97 appeared overhead, training its spotlight on Tony and Kate. From the external speaker a voice boomed, “GODINGTON! HANDS UP!”
Tony’s hands were already high in the air. That required the same effort he usually exerted to bench 130kg. He’d drawn on something primitive to lift Sir Duncan. Now the adrenaline had fled. Only the consequences remained.
“Do I look like Duncan Godington?” he shouted into the blinding light, well aware that no one in the copter could hear a word. “It’s Hetheridge! Scotland Yard. Sent packing six months ago!” He wasn’t sure why he added that last, except that it struck him as funny.
“CHIEF?” the PA boomed.
“Well-spotted! Lovely weather, eh?” he laughed.
“Tony, they can’t hear you,” Kate said.
“WAS THAT GODINGTON WHO WENT OVER?”
He gave India 97 the thumbs-up.
“PARAMEDICS EN ROUTE. STANDBY.”
That news earned a double thumbs-up. “No hurry, old man. Wouldn’t want to be a bother.”
“Tony,” Kate said sharply. “Sit down before you fall down.”
His wife had a point, as usual. He tried to kneel beside her, but his arthritic left knee took that as permission to give way. The impact of his body against the rooftop sent a bolt of agony through his skull.
“Come here.” Kate drew him close. Her warm breath against his throat was simple. Miraculous. Like a small girl, she whispered, “Are you sure we’re alive?”
“If it hurts this much, I’d say yes.”
“And he’s dead?” she asked, meaning Sir Duncan.
“Twice over.”
“Henry — Ritchie—” Her voice shot into its highest register.
“They’re fine.” He gave her a gentle shake. “They’re absolutely fine, I promise.”
“What about you?” Her gaze lingered over his injuries. She lifted her hand, but seemed afraid to touch his face.
“Do I still have an eye in there?”
“I think so. It’s swollen shut. Oh, Tony.”
“PARAMEDICS CLEARED TO ENTER THE BUILDING. ETA TO ROOF, THREE MINUTES.”
“Rather like getting updates from God, isn’t it?”
“The big guy’s a little late on the scene,” Kate said.
“No. He came through,” Tony said, tightening his embrace. “I still have everything I ever wanted.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
By Monday, Paul had acquired a second phone, an off-the-rack burner, to handle his truly personal calls. He’d already appeared on morning telly, radio shows, and American cable news. Now the calls were metastasizing into financial offers, many of them dodgy. Would he like a Hollywood agent? Possibly a Bollywood agent? Amazon Films had called him directly, no middleman, about a biopic. Several traditional publishers wanted to ghostwrite his autobiography on an accelerated schedule. Every tabloid he’d ever seen wanted to discuss his love life, his fashion sense, his favorite restaurant, and his iPod playlist. They all wanted exclusive photoshoots, too. He was getting scared to listen to his voicemail. Hence, the second phone.
His mum, Sharada, was holding up well. Who knew the woman who threatened to call the paramedics when he burned his thumb on the cooker would behave like Marcus Aurelius the stoic when summoned to St. Thomas’s Hospital? In the A&E, Paul’s checks had been perfunctory, of course, but he’d refused to leave until Kate came out of surgery. Sharada had accepted this with perfect equanimity, despite the fact they were stuck in the waiting room until three o’clock in the morning. Then she took him home—his childhood home—and made him palak paneer
.
Emmeline had done interviews over the weekend, too. Television programs, especially cable news, wanted to know about Kyla Sloane, the up-and-coming model with a dark side: what she’d been like, if there’d been signs, and on and on. Emmeline was good on camera, and she didn’t mince words about Sir Duncan and the public’s adoration for a serial killer. Even now, conspiracy theories were proliferating online. Maybe he’d been murdered by the Met and posthumously framed. Or maybe the real Sir Duncan was safe in Brunei, and an imposter had died in his place. Or the Met had been right about him, but in the end he’d pulled the wool over their eyes again, staging an epic faked demise straight out of the popular show Sherlock. Paul didn’t know how to combat group fantasies or militant suspension of disbelief. He only hoped the people who accepted objective reality continued to outnumber the ones who did not.
When Paul ran into Emmeline in a BBC1 green room, she didn’t mince words with him, either. She called him a tosser, a wanker, and a gormless git. She also told him she loved him, and they needed to get back together because he wasn’t safe out on his own. He tended to agree with her.
DCI Jackson had met with Paul twice, once alone in his office, again in a Scotland Yard conference room with those stone-faced worthies they called “the top brass” or, more cosmically, the Powers that Be. No one mentioned the press’s characterization of him as “the heroic face of today’s modern police service.” Nor did procedural infractions come up. He was starting over, tabula rasa. He would continue under DCI Jackson’s supervision on the Toff Squad, with one change. His rank would be Detective Inspector.
Mates and casual acquaintances kept asking him how he was holding up. He always smiled, laughed a little, and said something meaningless. If only he was an American who could weep in the arms of strangers and spill his deepest fears in a tweetstorm. But he wasn’t, and he couldn’t. In the aftermath of the crisis, he’d never felt more English.
Alone in his bed at night, he relived it all, sometimes in flashes, sometimes from start to finish. When it got bad, he pushed away the worst moments, focusing instead on the time after his rescue.
