High Pressure

by Sam Blake

  Rob had to agree with that.

  ‘Analysing the data around this incident and the hoaxes you’ve had already will be vital, but we’re ahead of the game.’ He paused. ‘We’ve been working on some prototype software here that aggregates data across social media platforms. Now seems like a good time to road-test it. Your guys are already feeding intel back to mine and we’re starting to build a picture, vertical and horizontal. Has anyone claimed responsibility?’

  Rob could almost hear Mike shaking his head.

  ‘All we know at this stage is the driver of the van was Afghan and lived in Luton – the same town the 7/7 bombers rendezvoused in on their way to London. He works for some sort of high-end landscaping service and was heading to a job in Victoria.’

  ‘So you might have a link to IS?’ Rob paused. ‘Could the Irish embassy be a target? You remember Professor Anna Lockharte? She’s in there right now, there’s a reception on for something to do with the university. The presidential visit could just be an opportunity the unsubs are exploiting to get maximum traction with the press, but the location seems significant. Anna’s brother-in-law is the US ambassador to Moscow.

  ‘Anna Lockharte with the gift for spotting terrorists? How could I forget her? This incident was right outside. The Russians don’t make a habit of taking responsibility for their actions. But they are rather fond of chemical attacks.’

  In New York, Rob grimaced, both at the accurate assessment of the Russian threat and the thought that the explosion could have been aimed at Anna. The Russians were usually much more covert, but Putin’s need to posture at the moment, his efforts to disrupt the West – whether it was by infiltrating elections or making the American president look a total ass – could have all sorts of implications. He wasn’t a man it was easy to second-guess.

  ‘The CEO of Cybex Security is in there, too – they are launching some sort of Bursary. And the PR director is Russian – an Eva Talanova.’

  ‘I’ll get her checked out.’

  ‘A US embassy car will collect Anna as soon as it’s possible. You want her take on events?’

  ‘Absolutely. You know what they say in detective novels about coincidences.’

  Chapter 11

  3.20 p. m.

  Downstairs in the kitchen in the Irish embassy, Brioni was finding it hard to concentrate on what Siobhan was saying. She still couldn’t believe Steve was upstairs. She’d been waiting for him to finish his speech, thinking she could speak to him afterwards – assuming she didn’t bottle it, of course – and then the bomb had gone off and everything had been chaos. She’d been about to slip away downstairs to regroup when she’d seen Anna sway.

  Standing with her back to the swing service door, Siobhan had ditched her jacket but had a professional elegance that made her look cool and in control despite the heat. She reminded Brioni a lot of Marissa, how she always seemed to have the right words for the right moment – and the right outfit. Brioni smoothed her skirt, hoping it didn’t look as ill-fitting as it felt.

  As if everything wasn’t bad enough already …

  Siobhan’s voice cut through Brioni’s thoughts.

  ‘Right, everyone … Calm down, Niamh, there’s no need to look so panic-stricken. You’re safe.’ Siobhan leaned against the kitchen door. ‘Can everyone hear me?’

  The employees of Celtic Hospitality murmured their response.

  ‘Good. So we’ve got some sort of a terrorist situation outside. I’ve been told they think it’s a chemical attack so nobody goes outside, do you hear me? Doors and windows kept shut, no one goes out for a smoke. Particularly no one goes out for a smoke.’

  There was a ripple of awkward laughter.

  ‘Our job right now is to try and keep the people upstairs happy. It’s boiling up there, so I want to set up a hydration station along the wall beside the service stairs – tea, coffee, water. We’ll need to produce some more food from somewhere, but there are plenty of biscuits to go up in the first instance. I want everything spotless down here so we can start service again in thirty minutes. Get that dishwasher loaded, we’ll run the glasses through and have a look for tea and coffee cups. They should have plenty of everything. You all need to take a break – in rotation. I’ll pin a list up.’

  Brioni took a deep breath. She was going to have to go up there again, and it would be a miracle if Steve didn’t see her this time.

  Maybe she should just act surprised and ask how he was, tell him she’d been trying to get hold of Marissa.

  That was the truth, after all. And definitely better than plan A – actually confronting him. Perhaps Marissa had changed her number and wasn’t intentionally ignoring her at all.

  3.21 p. m.

  The top deck of the bus was hotter than the Kandahar desert, the sun hitting the sealed front windows and raising the temperature in the first six or so rows to unbearable. When he was a kid, you used to be able to open the slim side windows on a bus, let some air in, but it was different here, these new buses seemed to be hermetically sealed. The few people prepared to deal with the heat upstairs had moved to the very back. He was the only passenger in the front quarter, had chosen a spot when he’d got on, close to the top of the stairs, sliding across the wide seat to the window.

  He knew the cameras were recording his every move.

  But he had it all worked out.

  He’d rehearsed this. Every day for the past two weeks, same bus, same time. Building a routine, as if he was a regular. Alpha Close to Orchard Street. The driver recognised him now, lifting his chin in silent acknowledgement as he tapped his Oyster.

  He’d swung off his backpack as he sat down, slipped it between his leg and the side of the bus. Out of sight.

  Sweat rolled down his back as he leaned down to unzip the main compartment of the backpack and eased the brown paper takeaway bag out of it, slipping it under his seat. He looked out of the window, checking to see where they were, the pavement crowded with shoppers and tourists. He was getting off at the next stop. He tucked the paper bag right in, then, pulling the backpack onto his knee, made a show of hunting for his phone.

  He glanced out again. They were heading along the side of Selfridges now; he could see that the bus stop beside the food hall was packed. Reaching up, he rang the bell. It was hardly necessary; the bus was already slowing. Swinging out of his seat, he grabbed the rails at the top of the steps, glancing quickly down the upper deck. Looking but not seeing. Brown faces – African, Asian; one Chinese; a pair of white teenagers, tattoos crawling up their necks.

  The bus jolted to a halt and he slid down the steps, pushing through the people standing around the open double doors in the middle of the vehicle. He didn’t look at them. Passengers were already getting on, jostling for space – an African woman with a buggy. He stepped out onto the pavement, his head down. The temperature outside was a few degrees lower than it had been on board. He paused for a split second, glancing in through the glass doors of the food hall.

  She was looking straight at him, through the glass, her blonde hair pulled back off her face, her sunglasses on her head. Could she see him in the bright light outside? He wasn’t about to hang about to find out. His phone in one hand, the other on his backpack strap, he heard the bus doors smack closed him, felt the air stir as it grumbled noisily away.

  3.22 p. m.

  Her hand on the door leading to the street from Selfridges Foodhall, Marissa looked out at the pavement, hesitating for a moment. A number 13 bus had pulled up, disgorging its passengers, swallowing more. Did she have everything? She needed to concentrate but everything was in such a swirl. She couldn’t get the memory of Steve’s face as he’d looked in the restaurant window out of her head; she could feel a solid ball of worry, like a rock in her stomach.

  Steve’s birthday present.

  Dear God, here she was in Selfridges and she hadn’t even thought of it. So many other things had crowded her mind. She’d got cash out this morning, intending to go to the bike shop on Store
Street after lunch. She still had no idea what she was going to get him, but she knew they’d have something – the latest all-weather gear or…

  Holy God, how could she have forgotten?

  She paused at the food hall door, looking out at the people on the pavement, only half-seeing. Should she look here, upstairs? Or come into town again tomorrow? Today was Thursday – his birthday was on Sunday. She still had time. She looked at the bag in her hand. She’d picked up a black silk wrap dress as she’d passed through the women’s floor. It was her size and had been hanging on the end of a rail; she hadn’t even tried it on. Part of her knew she had to make today look like a normal day, and when did she ever go into Selfridges and not buy something? She knew he’d ask tonight and she needed to have something to show him. It was exactly the type of thing he liked.

  Marissa bit her lip. Did she have time to go back to the sports department? She couldn’t focus, needed to calm down and take a minute or she could make it all much worse.

  What did Steve know, and – more importantly – what would he do about it?

  Marissa took a step away from the door and walked a few steps into the store. So much had happened that she needed to process and it was all swirling in her head.

  While she’d been at the counter buying the dress, she’d heard people talking about an explosion. Now she pulled out her phone to open Twitter and search for the #LondonAttack hashtag. It was literally flying, with millions of updates. Photos, speculation. She scrolled through. Something had happened. Something was happening. A real explosion this time, not just a hoax designed to tie up police resources and spread fear and panic. She needed to get moving.

  Adjusting her bags, she turned to go outside, pushing the heavy glass door open, a wave of heat hitting her. Heading out of the food hall, she walked briskly to the corner of Oxford Street. The pavement was packed. Ahead of her, the lights changed and the bus began to pull across the junction.

  Marissa pushed her hair out of her face. She was trapped in a nightmare and she didn’t know how to get out.

  Chapter 12

  ‘Fuck’ The comment was explosive, the police officer keeping his eyes fixed on the computer monitor in front of him. ‘Another blast. A big one. Oxford Street, junction with Orchard Street – it’s a bus.’

  Detective Chief Inspector Mike Wesley swung around to look at the video screen that filled the back wall of the room. It had switched to an on-street camera image. Oxford Street, the iconic Selfridges store clearly in the background. Right in the middle of the junction was a bright red bus, the top of it peeled open like a tin can. Smoke was billowing where the upper deck should have been, now a mass of twisted metal, and on every side black cabs had slewed across the road, like blue-bottles about to feast on a kill.

  Mike swung around to look at the social media accounts they were monitoring on the other screens in the room. Almost instantaneously, they began updating with images. He could never understand why people took photographs of accidents, but there were times when he was extremely grateful they did.

  Within minutes, every screen showed photos of the bus from different angles. Mike’s brain was already kicking into action as the screens continued to scroll, survivors stumbling into the road, passers-by leaving the pavements to help. Medics or off-duty emergency service personnel, maybe – he hoped so. A moment later the reassuring flash of blue lights appeared in the background as ambulances and fire engines came into view.

  ‘Looks like our hoaxers might have really stepped it up. I’m in the incident room if anyone wants me. Keep feeding the social media info to our guys and to New York.’

  In New York, the cybercrime team were watching their monitors intently. On the walls of the small open-plan office, flat screens were illuminated with maps of London, of the hoax locations. Coloured markers pulsated across each of them, radiating lines to other markers. Down the side of each screen, social media accounts scrolled, hashtags, images flashing past.

  They’d already synced their feeds with London, information from across all the social media platforms funnelling into systems both in the UK and the US.

  Leaning on a desk, Rob took a moment to watch. The programs his team were developing used every element, from geolocation to repeat phrasing, to connect accounts and to draw a picture of the users involved: when; how often; content. The hoax locations, and now the locations of the van and the bombed bus, formed epicentres of activity. Their job was to trace it along the fibres of the web that radiated from those points.

  The news networks in London were already covering the first explosion, helicopters sending aerial shots to the stations. Rob glanced over to the screen. At the first scene, the yellow pop-up tents, fire and ambulance crews in their bright green and yellow biohazard suits, bodies still lying in the road where they had fallen, made it look like a futuristic war zone.

  But it wasn’t the future – it was happening right now.

  And Anna was in the middle of it all.

  Standing up straight, Rob exchanged glances with one of the tech team standing closest to him. Nothing about this was good. Unconsciously crossing his arms, Rob felt a wave of anxiety. Anna hadn’t answered his last text, but he prayed she’d read it and that she hadn’t been close to the windows in the embassy. The moment he’d been notified, he’d logged on to check the wind direction and the anticipated drift of the cloud. It looked as if it was moving away from the embassy, but you could never be sure; an odd gust … He couldn’t think about that now. The UK boys on the ground had confirmed chlorine gas. It seemed a strange weapon of choice – for one thing, you could smell it – but perhaps this was as much about spreading terror as it was about casualties.

  Rob needed to find out how soon they could get Anna out. The security detail from the US embassy would take her straight there, unless Mike wanted to speak to her first in New Scotland Yard. Rob felt his mouth go dry.

  In Paris, by the time he’d found out about the attack, they’d known she’d survived. This was different. The situation was escalating. He needed to see her, to know she was fine and to know for sure that she was somewhere safe.

  Rob watched information flashing across the screens. A backlash of right-wing speculation was already monopolising social media. Tensions were running high across the entire city, and the heat was only making that worse. All the Brits needed on top of this was a race riot.

  Rob let out a breath and ran his hand over the phone in the back pocket of his jeans. It was switched to vibrate but the communication blackout would still be in place across the affected areas. Anna was inside the Irish embassy and he just prayed she was safe.

  From the moment he’d found out about the bomb, he’d known for absolute sure that he couldn’t lose her.

  Chapter 13

  Anna closed her eyes and breathed deeply again, focusing on counting her heartbeats, on centring herself. As she’d started thinking about chemicals the panic had begun to rise again, but she had it under control this time. She was almost there. She took another breath. The air inside the embassy reception room was heavy with fear, thick like treacle. And with the windows closed, the temperature was rising. A bead of sweat trickled down Anna’s back, running the full length of her spine. Her dress was loose, but even the air was sticky, the tension palpable. She could hear theories being exchanged, facts disputed, self-styled experts discussing, pontificating.

  Glancing around, Anna looked for Brioni again, but she had gone. Isolde Mulcahy reached for her arm.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK? You’ve gone very pale.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. Don’t worry about me. I’m sure you need to go and look after things …’

  Steve Hunt joined them, his phone in his hand, as Isolde shook her head.

  ‘I’ve briefed the staff. It’ll be fine. The caterers are fantastic, they’re going to bring up tea and coffee and more food. Once people are fed and kept hydrated, they’ll be happier. I’ve no idea how long this could last.’

  An
na rolled her eyes in sympathy. Isolde suddenly had about one hundred extra guests, for who knew how long, and it was her job as the ambassador’s wife to ensure they were comfortable, that their needs were fully met.

  ‘Damn.’ Isolde and Anna both turned as Steve spoke, jabbing at his phone screen. ‘Signal’s died.’

  ‘It’s protocol.’ Anna could hear her voice, calm and controlled as if it was someone else speaking. ‘All mobile communications are shut down immediately after an incident. The blackout will last as long as necessary to ensure there are no more devices out there that could be triggered by a phone, or active suspects on the ground.’

  Steve nodded curtly. ‘I’m sure they have everything under control. We just have to wait.’ He paused, suddenly changing the subject. ‘What part of America are you from?’

  ‘New York, but my mother’s Irish, hence the mixed accent.’

  ‘My wife’s Irish. Her family are from a tiny place called Ballycastle, it’s not even on the map.’

  Anna smiled, not confident that it was sincere. Her first impressions of Steve hadn’t exactly endeared him to her, and she knew she needed to try a bit harder here if they were going to be stuck in the same room for the afternoon. ‘Sounds like the perfect place for a holiday, away from the rat race.’

  Steve grimaced. ‘I have to confess I’ve never been, but Marissa goes to visit her father as often as she can. Their house overlooks the beach.’

  ‘You’ve never been? You’re definitely missing out.’ Anna continued, reaching for something to try and make conversation. ‘Does your wife work in technology, too?’

  ‘Who – Marissa? No.’ Steve laughed, ‘She did a degree in chemistry in Trinity actually, got a first, but we moved to New York when we got married and she didn’t need to work.’ Anna couldn’t help the eyebrow that shot up. He didn’t seem to notice. ‘She does lots of charity work. Our church in Muswell Hill runs a soup kitchen, it keeps her very busy.’