by N C Mander
Jock stopped abruptly. ‘What about her?’ he growled. ‘She’s dead. Killed by that bloody man Yousuf. If we don’t get to the bottom of this, she isn’t going to be the only casualty.’ Jock limped on down the corridor and disappeared around the corner.
Colin followed him, leaving Edison and Kat alone. Edison turned to face her. Her shoulders were hunched. The pallor of her skin was grey, and exhaustion was writ large on her delicate features. Without a word, Edison enveloped her in his arms and held her close to him. He could feel the tension in her body. She turned dark-rimmed eyes to look up at him, and their gazes connected briefly before she buried her head back into his chest and tears began to pour down her cheeks. Edison kissed the top of her head and tenderly stroked her dark hair where it fell down her shoulders. On instinct, he whispered, ‘Shhhhhh, it’s going to be ok.’
The words sent a lightning bolt through Kat’s body, which stiffened in his embrace. She drew back. ‘It’s not going to be ok, Edison,’ she said, her voice hard and trembling. He tried to reach for her hand, but she pulled it back. She stood with her arms at her side, her fists clenched. Her mouth set in a grim line. ‘It’s not going to be ok. There’s a bomb, Edison. A bomb. And I don’t know where it is.’ She burst into tears again, the pressure of recent days erupting into swelling sobs that consumed her small frame.
Edison approached her carefully, and this time, she allowed him to take her hand. Kat turned her tear-stained face toward him, and just for a moment, he was struck by how vulnerable she looked. She wiped away the tears, and the look of helplessness was replaced by one of steely determination. It reminded him of Ellie, who, in the throes of the toxic treatment that was supposed to be extending her life, had adopted a fierce, gritty attitude that had floored him at times. The memory caused him to draw breath.
‘What’s wrong?’ Kat asked, looking concerned. ‘You’ve gone white.’
Edison shook his head, trying to rid himself of the images in his mind of his wife in hospital, her body weakened by the relentless treatment but with that determined look she never lost until the last time he saw her, the day before she died. ‘Nothing,’ he said, pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind. ‘Can you fill me in on what I need to know?’
Kat looked up as a hospital porter rattled past them with an empty gurney. She took a deep breath, and breaking every protocol and the official secrets act, in hushed tones, she told Edison everything that had happened with Operation HAPSBURG in the past two days.
She was midway through recounting Anna’s interrogation when her phone rang.
She snatched it from her pocket, ‘Yes?’
‘Kat?’ Mo, on the other end of the line, sounded breathless.
‘Mo – what’s the news from the raid?’ Kat demanded.
‘Not good. The bomb squad went in late morning, and they’ve just finished their full sweep of the property. Clear traces of explosives were found in the kitchen.’
‘Shit,’ Kat said.
‘I took a look after they cleared it for me to go in. It’s quite obvious our bombers are not going back there anytime soon.’
‘Shit,’ Kat repeated. ‘Ok,’ she pulled herself together after a pause. ‘The explosives must be with them in the van. Wherever that is.’ She began walking in the direction that Jock and Colin had taken, peering into each room as she passed. Edison followed.
‘I’m on my way in,’ Mo said.
‘Mo,’ Kat faltered wondering how she was going to get through breaking the news of Natalie’s death to her youngest officer. ‘We’re at the Royal London. Jock was injured on an op this morning, and Natalie …’
‘Kat, what’s happened?’ Mo asked, reading her tone.
‘Mo, Yousuf was in the apartment. He attacked Natalie and Jock. Natalie didn’t …’
There was a roar of anguish on the other end of the line then silence.
‘Mo? Mo, are you still there?’
‘I’m on my way,’ said Mo, and the line went dead.
*
In the small, private room, Jock had thrown himself onto the bed. He was still sweating from the effort of the journey when Edison and Kat found him. ‘I just spoke to Mo,’ Kat told them. ‘VIPERSNEST is in the wind with a van full of explosives. Colin, I need anything you’ve got on that van. Can you get in touch with the Grid?’
Colin and Kat clustered around Jock’s bedside, discussing the case and making calls. On the other side of the room, Edison stood by the window and pulled out the laptop Jock had given him. He placed it on the windowsill and ran his hand across its cold, metal case. He lifted the lid and fingered the power key. He pressed it, and the screen flickered into life.
Thanks to the trojan horse malware he’d sent to RubiksKube, Edison logged into the laptop with ease. As soon as he had accessed the home screen, Kat made a beeline for him.
‘Anything on the location of the attack?’ she pressed, a note of desperation in her voice.
Edison didn’t respond as he began to dig through Christoph’s email.
‘How did you know it was Christoph?’ she asked, watching Edison manipulate the cursor across the screen, pulling up scripts, message boards and emails in quick succession.
Without taking his eyes off the screen, Edison explained, ‘All hackers, all coders have a tell, a voice that comes through in their script – like a writer or an artist’s style. Little flourishes that mean you can make a pretty good guess as to who wrote it. Jamie’s voice, well, there was a lazy timbre to everything he coded. Our man was ruthlessly efficient. I met him online and matched the syntax to the basic code on the infrastructure fund’s front end.’
‘But how was he accessing Jamie’s user on the system?’
‘As simple as watching over his shoulder when he entered his password.’
Kat shook her head. ‘What else can you tell us now you’ve got the laptop?’
‘He’s quite a prolific agent for hire, is Christoph, if these emails are anything to go by. He uses ProtonMail, smart, it’s heavily encrypted, and messages aren’t stored on servers and neither are the encryption keys. Our colleagues in Europe would certainly be interested in a number of these operations.’
‘We’ll pass it all on to Six,’ Kat said grimly. ‘What about HAPSBURG though. Anything on the attack?’
Edison tapped into the command line interface and brought up the telegram messaging program. ‘There’s only so much I’ll get from this as there’s a time-sensitive destruct function on communications.’ He was silent as he skimmed through the last message or two. ‘These numbers,’ he pointed at the screen. ‘They look like coordinates to me.’ He pulled up the maps app on his phone and typed them in. He and Kat watched as the map zoomed in to South London.
‘Wimbledon,’ Kat breathed.
*
0553, Sunday 9th July, Nelson Gardens, Bethnal Green, London
Jock had finally been discharged at three o’clock in the morning, after much wrangling with the night shift staff. He was bundled into a taxi and sent home. Colin, Mo and Kat, with Jock’s protestations ringing in their ears, set off to Thames House. Edison, too, was banished. ‘You’re not operational. We can’t risk it,’ Kat told him when he argued that he should join the surveillance team on the ground. Edison had sulked all the way home, wondering how he might be able to help the team at this, the most critical part of the mission.
‘Hello stranger,’ Tony greeted Edison as soon as he walked through the door of their flat in Bethnal Green. Edison dropped his holdall by the foot of the stairs and followed Tony into the kitchen.
‘You’re up early.’
‘I’m picking the kids up to go queue for Wimbledon. They want to sit on the hill to watch the final. The oldest one is tennis mad.’
Edison thought quickly, trying to work out how best to dissuade Tony from his plan. ‘Are you sure it’s a good idea to take your kids to sit out in the sun all day? It’s going to be a scorcher.’
‘Hats, water, factor fifty, I think we’ll
survive.’
Looking out the window, the early morning sunshine was reflecting off the roofs of the parked cars below, and the warmth of the day was already seeping in through the ill-fitting frames. Edison wrestled with his conscience. He couldn’t push Tony too hard without compromising the operation. Then a brainwave hit him. ‘I haven’t got any plans for today. Maybe I could join you?’
Tony looked stunned by the suggestion. ‘Well, if your idea of a rock-and-roll Sunday is hanging out with someone else’s kids, then be my guest.’
‘Great. Have I got time to jump in the shower?’
‘Yeah, if we could leave by half-past, that would be good.’
At just after six thirty, Edison was sat in the passenger seat of Tony’s clapped-out Ford Escort, the reassuring weight of his Glock hammering against his thigh every time the busted suspension encountered a pothole.
Chapter Twenty
0752, Sunday 9th July, Vauxhall Bridge, Vauxhall, London
Kat and Mo were in Mo’s Mini, crossing the river at Vauxhall. Kat had an earpiece in that connected, via Bluetooth, to her phone. ‘So, tell me what’s going on,’ Kat picked up her conversation with Colin where she’d left it moments earlier at Thames House. ‘Are they evacuating?’
‘No, Colchester thinks that’s too risky.’
‘Idiot. So, what is he doing?’
‘He has mobilised the counter-terrorism team. Bomb squad. The works. Nick Walsh, Mo’s been working with him, is coordinating on the ground. They’re mustering nearby on standby.’
‘Anything on the local CCTV?’
‘I’ve got all eyes on it, but as yet, no sign of the van.’
‘The final starts at two thirty. Gates open at half-past ten.’ Kat looked at her watch, ‘Another two and a half hours before everyone’s in.’
‘There are extra security checks in place on the gates, and every vehicle going in is being taken apart. LaunderLoad is one of a handful of commercial laundry companies used by the championships. Our man Yousuf had really done his research.’
‘Were there any vans already on site?’
‘Yes, but all clean.’
‘Ok. The CCTV is key. Mo will be on the ground and will call in any sightings. Let me know if you get anything?’
As they drove, the concrete towers of South London’s council estates had given way to the leafy green of the affluent suburbs of Wandsworth and Earlsfield. ‘I had better go,’ Kat said to Colin, bringing her hand up to the earpiece to end the call.
*
0808, Sunday 9th July, The All England Club, Wimbledon, London
‘Colin, it’s Edison.’ He’d left Tony and his children shuffling forward in the queue and gone to scout the nearby side streets. He knew he wouldn’t get through security with his concealed weapon and needed space to consider his options for accessing the grounds without raising suspicion. He needed to know what the official movements were so risked putting a call into Colin on the Grid.
‘Edison, you know I need to be keeping lines clear.’
‘Then let’s make this quick. Tell me the plan, and I’ll get off the phone.’
‘Where are you?’
‘In the vicinity. You know I couldn’t just sit at home watching News24.’
‘Christ, Edison. You had better not screw this up for them.’
Edison felt affronted, ‘Come on, Colin.’
‘We had all hell to pay on Friday after Hughes called his chum, Johnson.’
Edison flushed and steered the conversation away, ‘Listen, I’ve been thinking about Yousuf’s motive. Any intelligence on why he’d be targeting Wimbledon?’
‘Capacity crowds are pushing forty thousand on site. Isn’t that enough?’
‘Possibly. But any dignitaries attending? Politicians?’
Colin consulted a list of the ticket holders. ‘Speak of the devil. The Home Secretary was supposed to be there but changed his itinerary after Tanya reported the latest to the JIC.’
‘The Home Secretary?’ Edison mused. They couldn’t be targeting the Home Secretary if Hughes was involved. They were good friends. It was only the senior cabinet minister’s intervention that had saved Hughes from criminal charges. ‘Anyone else?’
‘A few footballers and one minor royal. Listen, I really need to free up this line.’
‘Ok, I’ll let you know if I come across anything.’
Colin sighed. ‘Edison,’ he pleaded with his friend, ‘don’t do anything you’ll regret.’
‘It’s possible to regret doing nothing more, you know, Colin,’ Edison’s fierce tone invited no argument. He ended the call. A few stragglers were wending their way toward the grounds, clutching their precious tickets. All Edison wanted to do was scream at them to turn around and go home.
*
1405, Sunday 9th July, The All England Club, Wimbledon, London
‘Wow it’s hot,’ Kat said to no one in particular, fanning herself with a programme and screwing her eyes up against the sun. She was at the top of the stands overlooking Centre Court. She had circuited the whole venue three times in the last hour, finishing at this spot each time. There was now only half an hour until play was due to start, and the stadium was almost full. On the court, a television presenter was doing a piece to camera, ahead of the arrival of the players. The crowd was buzzing with anticipation.
Kat turned her back on the stadium and wended her way through the corridors that took her into the depths of the administrative heart of the championships. She arrived outside a door that opened onto a room occupied by four people, one of whom was Detective Sergeant Nick Walsh. Two of the other men were carrying MP5s. They and Nick were dressed in flak jackets. The fourth, a woman, was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was studying a bank of monitors intently.
Earlier in the day, Nick had introduced the two armed policemen as Sergeant Jake Ducker and Sergeant James Woods. They headed the armed response and bomb disposal units respectively. ‘And this is Susie, she’s going to be our eyes and ears for the day,’ Nick had told her when she’d first arrived at the makeshift operational headquarters.
Nick’s attention was fixed on the monitors, looking over Susie’s shoulder. ‘Are your teams in place, Jake?’
Before responding, Jake spoke into a walkie-talkie. ‘All units, confirm.’ A response came through an earpiece plugged into the side of the police officer’s head. ‘Yes,’ he answered Nick’s question perfunctorily.
Nick turned to Kat. He pointed at one of the monitors. There were three vans parked close to one of the buildings. Kat recognised the insignia of LaunderLoad. ‘Is one of those our van?’
‘James’ team have checked them. Nothing.’ Nick replied. ‘Right,’ he said, putting both his hands on the woman’s shoulders, ‘Susie, you’ll keep us informed?’ The woman nodded. ‘We’re going to take our positions now,’ he told Kat.
‘And so, we just wait?’
‘Afraid so.’ Nick opened the door and allowed James and Jake to leave before him. ‘Your guy, Mo, is on the streets. He’s a good chap,’ he said before disappearing down the corridor.
Kat looked at the screens. She watched the three men emerging onto a busy concourse that skirted the building they were in. Nick set off in the direction of the terrace where thousands of fans who didn’t have tickets for the main stadium were crammed in to watch the match on the big screen. Jake and James waited in a shady spot. Jake would occasionally speak into his walkie-talkie, checking in with his team distributed across the grounds.
There was a monitor dedicated to the BBC’s television feed and Kat could see the first set was well underway. She and Susie watched, their gazes flicking from one monitor to another as the pictures cycled through the many cameras dotted around the grounds.
The first set finished, and Kat was feeling impatient, cooped up in the stuffy security office. ‘I’m going to take a look around,’ she told her companion who made disparaging noises, wanting to protest but didn’t.
Kat emerged into the sun
shine. The thoroughfares that conveyed visitors around the grounds were empty. Everyone’s attention was focused on the action unfolding on the main show court. It was a set a piece, and the match promised to be a tightly contested affair. Kat moved around the grounds, spotting occasionally a member of Jake’s team, positioned with snipers. Ready. Members of the public would be totally oblivious to their presence, but Kat’s experience told her where to look. It was quiet but for the punctuation of polite applause after each point. An occasional cheer erupted from the terrace where the sun-drenched fans were enjoying the action.
She arrived on the edge of the terrace and stood in the shade, watching the crowd.
Shouting erupted behind her. She heard an engine being revved.
Chapter Twenty-One
1557, Sunday 9th July, The All England Club, Wimbledon, London
Kat whipped round. A white van was careering down the narrow walkway leading toward the terrace. Out of the van jumped a clean-shaven man. His dark skin glistened with sweat. The sun reflected on something shiny in his right hand. A knife. A second man followed, wielding an automatic rifle held above his head. He fired a handful of rounds. The noise of the gun drew the attention of the crowds on the terrace, and many of them scrambled to their feet, screaming.
The van continued to accelerate. Nick Walsh was running toward it, taking aim at the driver. The first shot grazed the side of the van. And his second shattered the glass of the windscreen. His third round missed the driver, who was wrenching the steering wheel from left to right, a ferocious look on his face. Despite the erratic steering, the van continued to advance on the crowded terrace.
Nick lined up his gun to fire again. One of the men was running toward him. Just as he pulled the trigger, the knife-wielding terrorist descended on him and slashed at him mercilessly. Acting on instinct, Kat sprinted toward the stricken police officer.
The shot had found its target, and the driver slumped over the steering wheel. The van veered off its path and was halted when it crashed into the wall. The sound of folding metal against concrete stopped Kat in her tracks, and she looked over to where the van had wedged itself against the wall. For a terrifying moment, the idea that the impact might set off whatever explosives were being carried in the back flashed across Kat’s mind. She held her breath.
