High Pressure

by Sam Blake

  There was a small round of applause and Steve Hunt stepped up to the microphone. On the other side of the podium, Anna spotted Eva Talanova, Cybex’s PR Director, her blonde hair bright against the sea of dark suits around her. Isolde was right about her looking like a Bond girl – or villain – statuesque and at least six feet tall. Anna could imagine that with her sports experience she was well equipped to deal with a male-dominated hierarchy, but how that hierarchy accepted her was a very different matter. Russia was even further behind in terms of women’s emancipation than most countries.

  Thoughts of Russia made Anna shiver. Putin’s feelings of inadequacy, his acknowledgement that Russia was no longer a superpower, were driving his need to bolster his standing at home by destabilising the West. His focus was a new world order and ‘creative destruction’ was a part of that. And his reach was terrifying. She was so glad that Hope was safe in Ireland rather than going to one of the International schools in Moscow. There had been much discussion about her holiday to visit Charles, but she’d wanted to see Moscow and with extra security, he had persuaded Anna that everything would be fine.

  The room broke into a polite round of applause and Anna realised she’d been so caught up in her thoughts that she’d missed the last part of Steve’s speech. It was her turn.

  Donal Mulcahy stepped up to the podium and began to introduce her, but his voice was suddenly drowned out by a dull thud, followed by glass shattering and the screaming of brakes. Anna felt the sound go right through her.

  And the hairs stood up on the back of her neck.

  She’d heard a sound like that before – on the video clips and propaganda films she showed her students. In Paris, at the end of the siege.

  The sound of a bomb blast.

  Then the moment of deadly silence.

  A moment later the sound started again: alarms going off, someone’s car horn letting out a continual blast.

  And then screaming.

  The word banshee sprang straight into Anna’s head. Anna had only heard of the sound as it had been described in the Irish folk stories, but it ran through her like electricity. Paralysed, breaking into a cold sweat, she didn’t feel the glass slip from her hand or hear it as it shattered on the pale parquet floor.

  Chapter 9

  Standing beside the podium, on the opposite side of the reception room from the open French windows, Anna watched the reaction to whatever had happened outside as if it was a slow-motion film, her stomach in free fall. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Steve Hunt push his way through the crowd to the nearest open window. The ambassador seemed to be frozen at the podium, his face momentarily paralysed before he, too, reacted. The audience pushed towards the French windows, all curious to see what was happening outside. Most of Anna’s view was blocked but she could see that several individuals had gone out onto the narrow balcony.

  But Anna didn’t have time to process what was going on; the sound was echoing through her head, her heart pounding in her ears, fingers tingling as the room began to swim. She closed her eyes, willing the wave of panic to subside, focused her breathing. After Paris, Rob had given her a little book, The Art of Breathing by Danny Penman, and she visualised it now; its duck-egg blue pages and monochrome Victorian woodcut illustrations always calmed her when she needed it most. It was as if he was holding her hand, as if he was standing beside her when the memories began to overwhelm her, triggering a panic attack. He understood her, knew her better than she knew herself. It was at moments like this that she wished so hard that he could be here to hold her properly, that their relationship could be as close as they both wanted, one that wasn’t so complicated by so many levels of secrecy.

  He’d organised the counselling she’d had after Paris, had urged her to have more, what with everything that had happened afterwards in Dublin. He’d been right, of course, and she’d found someone good. The attacks came less often now, thank God, were usually sparked by a scent or a sound. Like the one outside.

  But she could feel something in the air, too, an instant mass reaction to whatever was going on. She couldn’t describe it, but it was as if the air in the room was charged with a sudden heightened feeling. Like static, it was exactly the same type of feeling she’d got in those first few moments in Paris.

  Perhaps it was fear.

  Anna closed her eyes, suddenly back there, in the bank. She could feel the cold of the black-and-white tiled floor against her cheek, hear the sound of automatic gunfire penetrating the mahogany of the tellers’ booths, the soft thud as it hit the bodies around her, echoing through her memory. The heat of blood and brain matter hitting her face, the smell of urine. She tried to push away the images, to focus on Rob’s tanned face, on the little blue book: ‘habits aren’t destiny unless you allow them to be … You breathe 22,000 times a day, how many are you aware of?’ She breathed in, held the breath, thought about holding it, about her whole body, about slowing her racing heart.

  She could do this.

  She needed to stay in control, to find out what was happening and if she could help.

  That was one of the worst things about everything that had happened in Paris – her inability to move on. She would always be utterly devastated at losing Jen, hated Hope’s silent grief, but most of all she hated the paralysis that came with these attacks, with the feeling that she wasn’t in control. That’s what her entire reaction had been about apparently; the PTS was all caused by the fact that she hadn’t been in control, that at any second the gunman could have turned on her, her arm wrapped around Hope, their auburn curls mingling on the chill floor.

  And that loss of control was exactly what she was feeling now.

  Anna breathed deeply, listening to her body, blocking out the room.

  She was in control here. Nothing was happening inside the room; whatever was going on outside wasn’t her problem. She was safe here. She was in the embassy of a neutral country. Why attack the Irish? They were everywhere, had fled oppression and famine to populate every corner of the world.

  Anna felt a hand on her arm and realised she had her eyes closed. They flew open to a shock of pink.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Brioni kept her voice low. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’

  Anna smiled weakly. ‘I’ll be fine, I think. Thank you for asking. It’s …’

  ‘The bomb? Don’t worry. Look, come away out of this crowd and close your eyes again.’ Brioni led Anna to the back of the room. ‘You’re grand, I’m right here.’

  Brioni put her arm under Anna’s forearm, linking their fingers tightly. Between the wall and Brioni’s touch, Anna felt some of her tension lift. She closed her eyes.

  She could control her breathing … she could. She gripped Brioni’s hand, so grateful for her in that moment. Anna knew how powerful human touch could be in communicating empathy; it could have a painkilling effect. She felt her heart rate begin to slow.

  More breaths, slowly. Almost there.

  She opened her eyes again.

  ‘Thank you. Really.’ Anna smiled, suddenly embarrassed. ‘I think I’m good now.’

  Brioni gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and stepped away to give her some space. Around them, the audience who had gathered for the award announcement had moved into the room, away from the windows, were clustered in tight knots, many with mobile phones to their ears. She could hear urgent conversation but not what anyone was actually saying; the sound of advancing sirens was loud.

  ‘What was it?’

  Brioni shook her head. ‘Sounded like a bomb to me. It’s big, whatever it is. But we’re safe in here. Of all the places that will have proper protection, it’s an embassy. And we’ve never pissed anyone off like the Brits have, so I doubt this building was the target.’

  Anna smiled weakly. With her sister, she’d been a target once, as incredible as it still seemed. But Brioni was right; the chances of anyone wanting to blow up the Irish embassy were slim.

  Gathering herself, Anna tried to tune in to the babble around he
r to find out what had happened.

  Brioni was right, and the embassy security detail would surely have the right information if something was happening.

  The sea of suits in front of her began to move away from the windows, into the room, enveloping her like a returning wave.

  Beside her, she felt Brioni stiffen. Anna opened her mouth to speak but she realised Brioni was watching Steve Hunt. He was on the other side of the room, talking urgently to a group of men.

  Before Anna could ask, Brioni said hastily, ‘I’d better get back to work. Will you be OK?’

  Brioni had paled again herself. Anna was desperate to ask what her connection to Steve Hunt was, but this wasn’t the time. She nodded.

  ‘Thank you, I will be now. Can I give you my card? If I can be of any help on your travels, please call – I’ve lots of contacts in London and at Empress College.’ Anna reached into her cross-body bag for her business card. ‘Hopefully I’ll see you later, but just in case.’?’

  Brioni smiled, her eyes flicking nervously back to Steve.

  ‘Thank you, it’s going to be a whole new world.’.’

  And moments later she was gone, vanishing through a hidden door in the panelling to what Anna assumed must be the service stairs.

  Anna scanned the room and, spotting Isolde, began to weave through the crowd towards her and Eva Talanova. Both women turned towards her as she reached them. Isolde was just as pale as Anna felt. Before Anna could speak, Isolde reached for her arm, shock evident from the tremor in her voice.

  ‘A van blew up outside … They don’t know what happened – if it’s an attack —’

  She was interrupted by her husband, who had been talking to a group of men who looked like security in the corner of the room. Donal Mulcahy kept his voice low as he joined them.

  ‘We need to sit tight here for a while. The emergency services have sealed off the road. It looks like the van just blew up – the blast sent it across the road into a bus coming the other way. There are reports that there’s a motorcycle in the middle and a car ran into the back of it. It’s a mess.’ Isolde’s hand went to her mouth as he continued. ‘The police will need to question anyone who was looking out of the window and saw it happen.’

  Distress written all over her face, Isolde voiced all their thoughts.

  ‘Was it a bomb?’

  ‘Too soon to tell.’ Donal put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. ‘We’ll be the first to know if there’s a serious threat.’

  ‘It sounded like it was right outside.’ Anna tried to keep her voice level.

  ‘Almost.’ The ambassador rolled his eyes. ‘I need to make an announcement to tell everyone to stay here.’

  Anna watched him work his way through the crowd towards the French windows, to survey the situation for himself, and felt the phone in her hand vibrate with a text. She realised she’d been gripping it tightly. Anna opened the text and froze.

  Explosion on Grosvenor Place. Suspected chemical attack

  DO NOT LEAVE THE EMBASSY.

  More when comms back. Car will collect you.

  Stay inside, close windows, switch off air con. I love you, beautiful xxxxx

  She read it again, her paralysed thoughts suddenly re-forming into a thousand questions. How did Rob know, all the way over in New York? A chemical threat?

  ‘Get back, get the windows closed!’

  Embassy security must have got the same message at the same time as she had. Anna couldn’t tell who was shouting, but the reaction was instantaneous. Those closest to the tall French windows pushed into the room and slammed them closed.

  The thoughts tumbled around her head. What sort of chemical? How did they know so soon? Were they evacuating the street?

  Her head spinning, Anna looked up to see the ambassador turn around and stride towards them, his face grim. Before he got very far, he was intercepted by another security officer, a radio in his hand. Nodding again, the ambassador’s expression became even grimmer, if that was possible. He headed towards the podium, tapping the microphone to get everyone’s attention.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as you have gathered, there has been an incident outside our building. It appears there has been an explosion causing multiple casualties. We have to assume this could be an act of terrorism and, in line with procedure in these circumstances and given our location, as an embassy we are now in lockdown. I’m afraid you cannot leave until we receive the all-clear. There is no need to panic but there will also be a communications blackout. The police will need to question any witnesses to the explosion, so please do make yourselves known to my team if you saw anything.’ He paused. ‘Please keep calm. This is a secure building. And the police will keep us up to date. They will be attending to the casualties in the first instance.’ He paused again. ‘I know it’s hot but we need to keep the windows closed in case of a chemical cloud. I’ll pass on more information as I get it.’

  Immediately the ambassador stepped away from the microphone, the volume in the room escalated, everyone speaking at once. Anna felt the sounds blurring around her. Her mouth dry, she breathed deeply. Breathe. Count. Breathe.

  There was nothing to panic about.

  This was all outside; it was happening somewhere else. They were so close to Buckingham Palace the security would be super-tight.

  There wouldn’t be any shooting.

  She took a steadying breath, focusing on Rob’s text message, on the kisses at the end. He’d said he loved her. And he was coming to meet her here in London in a few days and he’d make sure she was safe – she knew it.

  Relaxing marginally, Anna focused on getting her professional mind to override her emotional reaction, thinking about chemical attacks, about who would – or could – have perpetrated them. Was it sarin? Or Novichok maybe? Sarin had been used to devastating effect in Syria. And the attack on the subway in Tokyo – that had been sarin, too, over a thousand people had been injured. There were several key players in the production and sale of chemical weapons, but one was significant in their covert attempts to influence Western democracy.

  Russia.

  But a mass attack on the British public? Was that Russian style? Anna glanced at Eva Talanova, now deep in conversation with Steve Hunt, questions leaping into her head. To date the Russians had gone after individuals, supposed enemies of the state. Murders designed to look like suicide appeared to be occurring with increasing regularity. The much more public chemical attacks on Alexander Litvinenko and the Skripals in Salisbury had felt like warnings to others – very loud warnings.

  It had puzzled Anna that, remarkably, the British police investigations into the fourteen suspect suicides that had been linked to Russia had stalled along the way – in every case. Perhaps it was direction from Downing Street, but when innocent British citizens were put at risk, when they had been exposed to polonium-210 in London and Novichok in Salisbury, it was a different matter. And the investigation into the poisoning of the Skripals, and the poor woman who had died subsequently, was ongoing. So what could have happened to make London and its population a direct target? Surely the Russian administration knew better?

  But just because the Russians produced chemical weapons, it didn’t mean that they were responsible. Had IS changed its game? Perhaps the chemicals had come from Syria? Was it something to do with Trump’s visit?

  Questions flew through Anna’s head. Something this big could spark all sorts of political tensions, could result in a lot more than diplomatic sanctions.

  Chapter 10

  In New York, Rob could see the activity in the briefing room. The meeting had broken up the minute the news came through, and now DCI Mike Wesley was standing in the middle of the room like a single tree in the middle of a storm, his arms crossed tightly. All around him, officers were updating the data monitors on the walls, their concentration written in tight jaws and clipped sentences, their body language urgent. Rob picked up his cell and called Mike. Rob watched as Mike glanced up at the camera and turned ar
ound, striding out of the room as he took the call.

  ‘What’s the situation, Mike? How can I help?’

  Rob heard Mike Wesley clearing his throat, a door slamming as he entered another room, the hubbub of voices subsiding.

  ‘Looks like chlorine gas – immediate casualties in the vicinity and we’ve lost the first responders. The van exploded in the middle of the road. There was a bus right beside it, it’s a shell. Commander Goodyear has declared a major incident. We’re containing the area.’

  Commander Yvette Goodyear.

  Rob had met her briefly on his last visit. In her fifties, she wore her meticulously dyed deep brown hair smoothed into a chignon. She was one of the most senior officers in New Scotland Yard, and from what he’d heard she was part fire-breathing dragon, part guard dog, and had a hot line to the British Home Secretary. She’d called to thank him for ‘helping out’ after Operation Honey Bee, which had seemed a very British way of categorising international co-operation at this level.

  Mike continued. ‘We have to treat this as an escalation of the hoaxes. The timing is too coincidental. You know we’ve got over 650 separate terrorist-related cases open as of fifteen hundred hours today. We need everything you can offer – even with the protocols we have in place, there’s always a danger intelligence will be overlooked or not shared. We’ve got Special Ops on the ground, a team specialising in chemical incidents. Thank God we’ve rehearsed this.’