‘Jack, can you hear me?’ Sir Justin said.
‘Clearly, yes,’ Jack said, sitting in a secure room at the French airbase. He placed a finger on his earpiece, which would ensure that he clearly heard the dialogue in London.
‘You have ten minutes and no more to tell the Prime Minister and everyone here exactly what your assessment is. Then we have a fifteen-minute briefing from the CIA followed by a thirty-minute call to the White House. Do you understand?’
Jack nodded firmly, then began. ‘One single man, an Iranian spy, known as the General, will provide the orders to attack London in less than thirty-six hours,’ he said. ‘The Republic of Iran will implicitly deny he is acting on their orders and, quite simply, there is very little evidence to connect their government with this plot. It is state-sponsored terrorism, expertly put together as a fully deniable operation. They’ll be able to blame the Russians for the attacks and, likewise, the Russians will be able to blame the Iranians. It will create a vacuum of international confusion.’
Jack paused, waiting to see if anyone responded to that bombshell. They didn’t. All he saw on his screen were several people behind the Prime Minister scurrying around, passing notes and whispering into people’s ears. ‘The Americans, as you know, are leading this operation, but we have one single agent who has uncovered this plot. He’s on the ground with the Americans, alongside a small team from our Special Forces. We know that two improvised nuclear devices have been placed around the G7 location, with two known suitcase bombs sat in London that are potentially fissile. Our chief scientists have stated that the suitcase bombs are unlikely to be large enough for a nuclear explosion, but we should proceed on the basis that they may well be dirty bombs. They are radioactive dispersal devices, or RDDs.’
Jack watched Sir Justin Darbyshire raise a hand. ‘Jack, forgive me for interrupting, but you should know we have raised the threat level here in the UK to CRITICAL, we’ve mobilised all of the SAS and SBS counterterrorist units and have placed all military bomb-disposal units under operational command to provide military aid to the civil powers. We have planned for multiple attacks across London, and not just chemical or radiological attacks. How sure are you that these attacks will take place and what about the threat from plots we don’t know about?’
‘I’ll be brief and to the point on this, sir. Firstly, we must not strike against the suitcase bombs until the coordinated order is given by the Americans. That’s my first recommendation. Quite simply because, if we attack one without attacking the others, word could get to the General and he’ll order all strikes to go ahead. We must strike against all four locations simultaneously. Secondly, the Iranians have activated their sleeper cells within the UK. My judgement says that, if the General initiates the nuclear devices, that will be their code to attack other targets across the UK. If he doesn’t set off the bomb, then his demands will have been met and they will stay silent.’
The Chief of the General Staff, a former SAS commander, chipped in. ‘What about if we take them all down, at each of the four locations, and kill the threat off? The sleeper cells will attack us across the UK once they know about this, right?’
Jack stayed silent, watching the conversation spread amongst the committee members. He sensed he’d made his play and, with his and the other briefings they were about to get, he hoped they’d all agree on two things: to strike against the suitcases at the same time as the nuclear devices in France and to be prepared for any other attacks that might come from the sleeper agents that Nadège had been commanding in Britain.
‘The sleeper cells won’t attack if we take down this plot,’ Jack said confidently. ‘They’d operate only from the Iranian central command and, once the plot is taken down, the Iranians will deny all knowledge and go back to their planning table.’
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner put her hand up. ‘Any idea how many Iranian sleeper agents there are in the UK Jack? I had no idea they existed.’
‘We’ve been trying to infiltrate their cells for some time and what I can say, here and now, is that we’re not far off that. Numbers are unknown, but I do know that the General will look to set the first bomb off in Paris or London to show he is credible. But he won’t do that until he’s issued the extortion demand to the G7 countries. We have some hours to play with.’
‘You could well be wrong though, couldn’t you Jack?’ came the voice of the Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee, who was agitated and clearly peeved he wasn’t in the know. ‘If you’re wrong, and we get this wrong, the future of this world could be thrown into chaos.’
Hugo Campey was stirring looking for support across the room.
‘And the Americans will go big,’ the Chief of the General Staff boomed. ‘They’ve been itching for a full-scale war with Iran for years. This is now an act of war for them.’
‘An act of war, yes, but verified as being ordered by the Republic of Iran, no,’ Sir Justin replied.
‘This is insane,’ Hugo Campey said, throwing an arm in the air. ‘Our role is to protect this country, and we now have two suitcase bombs ready to explode. We have to act now and not wait.’
Whilst not in the room, Jack could fully sense the agitation and nervousness, and a fear of making the wrong decisions. He watched as Sir Justin began to command the room, just as he had hoped.
‘Prime Minister, we can control the Americans and their urge for war. We must be very careful here and Jack is the man on the ground who we should always listen to. I shall brief you separately, but we have some collateral now with the White House. Some collateral that I can assure you the Americans and their President will listen to. I’m afraid it’s highly secret and cannot be shared in this forum right now.’
‘What?’ came the thundering voice of Campey sat opposite Sir Justin. ‘I cannot allow that. We are all equally vetted to hear whatever is needed at this time of national crisis.’
‘I’m afraid you’re not,’ Sir Justin replied aggressively. ‘You, sir, better than anyone in this room, should know that, when there’s a need to know, it remains need to know.’
Jack couldn’t hide his contentment at seeing his competitor for the role of Director General of MI5 being put firmly in his box by Sir Justin. The Kompromat might just play out well, he thought.
The Prime Minister spoke quietly for the first time. ‘Jack, you seem very calm about all this. We have to go now, but we’re entering the endgame and can’t afford for anything to go wrong. Do you think the Americans can pull this off in France?’ The PM paused to look at her notes, as silence filled the room. ‘And my second question is, do you think your agent who is on the ground has got all this right and will be able to take down the General?’
Jack took a moment, his mind drifting to Sean’s friable nature. He experienced a moment of concern but it was overridden by his confidence. No time for indecision, he kept telling himself. ‘Yes to each of those questions ma’am and, yes, I’m fully assured this can be done if everyone goes with the timings and sticks with the plan the Americans have come up with.’
‘Splendid Jack, well done. Now, I’d like to speak with Sir Justin alone before we move onto the call with the CIA.’
Jack sighed and breathed out with a huge sense of relief, hoping that, amongst all his hopes, Sean would stick with the plan.
Chapter 50
Asturias
Sean peered into the living space of the target building and could clearly see four suitcases at the far side of the room: Two large blue ones and two small carry-ons. He had been watching the room for nearly ten minutes and had seen only one person. Nadège had been sitting on the sofa, occasionally getting up to walk to the kitchen and sometimes checking her suitcases and placing the odd additional item inside them. Swartz had briefed the SAS team commander on Sean’s new plan and the men were stationed at every ground-floor window, ready to strike.
‘Still no sign of the General,’ Swartz whispered to Sean. ‘For all we know he could be sat in the middle of
the Kuwaiti Desert ready to trigger all this.’
‘Anything from the guys at the other windows?’
‘Nothing. No one else has been seen inside.’
‘Shit. Hang on, who’s this?’ Sean cried out. ‘It’s Petra. With the General. Fucking hell.’
‘We take him down straight away, right?’ Swartz asked, flicking the safety catch on his Glock.
‘No, he’s not armed. None of them are armed. I want you on my shoulder with a team going straight upstairs to take anyone out. This room stays ours - no one shoots unless needed. Make it happen quickly Swartz.’
Sean adjusted the endoscope to get a better picture, with all three of them together in the frame. Nadège and Petra were walking towards the large dining table at the end of the room and the General walked behind them and placed his mobile phone on a sideboard. He stopped and stood at the table, pulling out a dining chair that he leant on with both hands. They were talking. No phones, no firearms. Sean wanted this done stealthily. The General was not in any shape to fight him, had a huge beer belly and looked unsteady on his feet. It was risky but doable, Sean told himself. They won’t run. If they do, I’ll shoot. It was high-risk stuff but something inside him told him it would be OK.
‘We’re good, on your call,’ Swartz said, tapping Sean on the shoulder. ‘I’m right behind you.’
Sean took a few deep breaths, pulled his Glock from his thigh holster and gently turned the door-handle. He pulled the door open, calmly moved the curtain to the side with ease and walked straight into the room, his weapon at his side.
The General had his back to him, as did Petra. It was Nadège who spotted him first and their eyes locked for what seemed like an eternity. He continued walking until he was in the centre of the room, Swartz taking up a wide position to his rear on the right, pistol down by his side. There was still no movement from any of them, with Nadège looking spaced out, gazing at what was happening in front of her eyes. Sean’s breathing calmed and his body tightened as he watched the General peer over his shoulder. The shock of seeing a man in full black kit, a weapon at his side and a death stare on his face had fixed him to the spot for what seemed like an age but was in fact only tenths of a second. Sean calmly drew his pistol until it was aimed right at the General’s head.
‘No, no,’ the General shouted, grappling with the chair as he tried to get to his feet, stumbling as he made a run for his phone on the sideboard.
‘Stand perfectly fucking still General Ali,’ Sean barked, in a voice that would have commanded instantaneous submission from most. ‘Turn around very fucking slowly and put your hands on your head.’
The General’s shirt buttons were undone, his belly flopping over his loose jeans, his face ashen with shock. Only Nadège would have seen the four SAS soldiers quietly move around the curtain and up the stairs, tightly bunched together, MP5s pulled into their shoulders, barrels held high. Sixty seconds later Sean heard the familiar sound of an MP5 double tapping bullets into someone’s body upstairs. He didn’t know how many were upstairs, but he trusted that if they were terrorists they were all dead now.
‘You,’ Sean barked at Petra. ‘Yes you. Stand up now.’
‘Don’t shoot, we’re not going to hurt anyone. It’s him, not us,’ she said, pointing at the General.
Sean waved his weapon at the General, indicating to him to move away from the women to the right-hand side of the room, where Swartz had his pistol aimed at his chest.
‘Not really true, is it?’ Sean replied. ‘You’ve both been on a killing spree across the globe so don’t fucking say it isn’t you. You’re both part of this shit and we’re here to fix that.’ He stopped and put his finger to his earpiece, hearing the words ‘rooms clear’ come across the radio.
It only took a millisecond for Sean to recognise movement as the General ran towards the sideboard, where his phone was. He didn’t make it. Sean shot him in the thigh and the General slumped sideways, letting out a scream before crumpling to the floor. He rolled over, tried in vain to crawl towards the phone, then slumped into a foetal position, clutching his leg. Sean walked over to stand in front of him.
‘We’ve got all your bombs,’ Sean said impassively. ‘And your men are all about to be killed. It’s over mate. Properly fucking over.’
Sean turned to Swartz and gave him a thumbs up. ‘Make the call now.’
Swartz clasped his radio, pressed a switch and released a series of words that the ops room in the hangar had been itching to hear. ‘Hello Zero, this is November Four. CLAYMAST. CLAYMAST.’
Chapter 51
Biarritz & London
The bodies lay still, some in the seats of their vehicles, blood dripping down their faces, others prone on the bridge deck of the Maltese-flagged vessel and, in London, two bodies had folded into each other as they ran towards their SAS aggressors.
Near to the D260 just outside Biarritz, two snipers had chambered their rounds into the breeches of their McMillan TAC-338A rifles, each squinting through their sights before controlling their breathing. The two terrorists sitting in the articulated lorry didn’t stand a chance. The shots were released simultaneously from two different locations that afforded the best sight of the men charged with detonating the nuclear device in one of the dozen or so dishwashers in the trailer. The shots hit both of them square in the head, punching a fist-sized hole in their skulls and slamming them hard against their seats. Within fifteen seconds the NEST team had arrived and begun their entry into the side of the lorry. A large canopy was drawn over the vehicle and the nuclear support team began their operation to mitigate the effects of any explosion from within. One hour later, the improvised nuclear device had been rendered safe.
The most complex assault that night took place on the vessel, which began with two stun grenades being lobbed onto the ship’s bridge before four Navy Seals entered, killing four men within seconds. Two US Navy helicopters hovered above the decks of the vessel, releasing twenty-four more assaulters who fast-roped onto the decks before making their way to every part of the ship to hunt down any terrorists within the voids, engine rooms, galley and cabins. Within thirty minutes, speeding in on the mistral, the second wave of helicopters arrived, carrying the NEST team specialists who fast-roped onto the vessel with boxes of hefty bomb-disposal equipment. Specialist high-risk searchers began the hunt for the nuclear device as the ship turned and headed back out to sea. Three hours later, a dishwasher inside a thirty-metre container, was found and the device made safe. The final words of the senior NEST team commander were heard across the radio as everyone held their breath, hoping to breathe again. ‘Standby. Ready to make safe.’
In London, a bomb-disposal officer with six tours of Afghanistan under his belt made his way inside a small lock-up located below the arches of a railway bridge close to Waterloo station. He had previously made the lonely walk to defuse dozens of high-tech IEDs in Iraq, Afghanistan and Northern Ireland but had, to that day, never dealt with a live dirty bomb. His record tally was thirty-three bombs during his first tour of Afghanistan and he hoped to rack up his first and only radiological device. He wore a brand-new Kevlar bomb suit, fifty-odd pounds of ballistic and blast protection and a black helmet with a visor shield across his face that received cooling air from its internal system. He walked past the two corpses, noticing how one man had fallen with his face in the groin of the other. He then made his way to two suitcases that he had previously seen having studied the diagrams of what lay inside provided by a couple of intelligence operators, who had looked inside them whilst they lay in a cache. He was mightily grateful for the drawing and photographs, which provided him with an indication of what he had to defuse.
Behind him, a whirlwind of activity had been taking place. Eight SAS soldiers had stormed the lock-up, killing the two occupants with less than eight shots fired. In the PINDAR bunker, the Prime Minister and COBRA officials watched live imagery of the SAS storming the lock-up, followed by a number of high-risk searchers from the Royal Engi
neers. Finally, they watched the Royal Logistic Corps’ bomb-disposal expert enter the garage, a man known as ‘Glynn H’ they had been told.
When ‘H’ eventually looked inside the first suitcase, he saw the advanced telemetry of an Iranian-built dirty bomb. He inspected the device by eye, noticing the advanced-level electronics, a frame that held the radioactive device and two mobile phones that would act as the command hub to initiate the bomb. For the second time in his life as a bomb-disposal officer, he shuddered as one of the phones started ringing. The LED screen was illuminated and he stared into the abyss, knowing that, if the second phone went off, it would be curtains for him. It didn’t. Nothing happened. He lived.
The forensics investigation would later show that the device had been built inside the lock-up and the cobalt source inside it had originated from Kazakhstan. The investigation would take over a year to identify where it had come from, but it could never be linked directly to the Iranians.
Just as that investigation was concluding, fourteen months later, Glynn H would receive the George Cross from Her Majesty the Queen.
In London, the issue was how to provide secret intelligence that would neither be leaked by the offices of 10 Downing Street, nor ignored for what it was. It had been an Iranian attack on the G7 and, by default, an act of war against many nations. The hotline between the President of the US and the United Kingdom was red-hot. Missives were flying around the inner sanctums of the White House and Number 10 about how to treat this catastrophic situation and staff were furiously working up different political and press options.
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