High Pressure

by Sam Blake

  She thought of the article she’d read – she couldn’t remember if it had been in New Scientist or on Reddit – but it had been about the robot vacuum cleaners that you left running to clean on their own. As they travelled around your home, they gathered data on your floor covering, the size of your house, whether you had children or pets or plants, perhaps if you smoked – and the terms and conditions of use stated that the data could be passed on to third parties. Data was valuable, and most people had no idea how it was being gathered.

  Anna was a terrorism specialist; did she deliberately keep a low online profile?

  Another noise outside made Brioni gasp, and the hairs stood up on the back of her neck. That definitely wasn’t a fox, unless they’d worked out how to open the gate.

  Who was out there?

  London was so different from home, where they left the doors open most of the time. Apart from their immediate neighbour, directly opposite on the next dune, the nearest house wasn’t for miles. The only thing likely to wander into the house was a curious sheep or one of the hares that grazed the short, stiff grass that somehow survived with its roots in sand, whipped by the salty sea wind.

  Leaning into the door, Brioni listened again, her heart pounding in her ears as she replayed the scraping noise in her head. It had sounded like the latch. It was old and rusting; the panels of the gate were swollen, so you usually had to kick it open, and it sort of stuck when you tried to close it. Had that been what she’d heard – the gate closing?

  Brioni thought hard: had it been open when she came home? The front door was on the opposite side of the house, the side gate recessed, hidden by the jutting picture window and more wild buddleia and forsythia. Had someone been there the whole time, watching her in the kitchen?

  Holy God.

  Brioni shivered. She should pay more attention to her gut; it wasn’t often wrong. One thing was for sure – she wasn’t about to go outside and find out.

  When she’d come into the kitchen, Brioni had planned to sort out the open boxes of cereal abandoned on the counter and clear up the newspapers and magazines on the table, but now she headed into the living room. She went straight to the window, her heart beating hard. There was no one in the street. Lights were on just coming on in the closely packed houses opposite, curtains open, upstairs windows open.

  Doubling back, she hurried upstairs, her footsteps silent on the worn floral carpet. Her room was at the back of the house, overlooking the parade of gardens, each one personifying its occupier. Leaning out of the window, Brioni caught the scent of a barbecue. The gardens close to their yard were all empty. Two doors down, a trampoline stood beside an apple tree; on the other side, a paddling pool sat in the middle of neatly mown grass, a table and chairs on the crazy-paved patio, toys strewn across it.

  It was all perfectly harmless, domestic, peaceful. Had the sounds all been in her imagination?

  Chapter 17

  It took a moment for the video link to patch through. Anna felt her heart thump with a flush of anticipation. This was ridiculous – she was like a teenager.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK there, honey?’

  Anna smiled as she heard Rob’s voice first, his face suddenly appearing on her screen as he switched on his camera. She had her laptop balanced on the desk-cum-dressing table in her hotel room, hadn’t even had a chance to unpack yet. It was past nine o’clock in the evening, but felt even later to Anna.

  It had been a very long day.

  The embassy guests had been taken out through the back of the building once they’d all been spoken to by the police. It had taken hours. Anna knew not to complain about the process – it was essential – but with the rising heat, it had become very uncomfortable in the embassy reception room. She’d ended up slipping out on to the landing and sitting at the top of the sweeping marble staircase, the stone deliciously cool in the shaded hall.

  Anna didn’t think she’d ever been so pleased to see the dark-suited secret service agent who had come to collect her.

  And then she’d been whisked away for a debrief.

  The questions had been detailed. DCI Mike Wesley, whom she’d met on her last rather dramatic trip to London, assured her she was doing just fine, although she didn’t seem to have any answers. She really didn’t know how useful she could be, and at that point she’d just wanted to get back to her hotel and slip into the bath, thankful that the ‘interview’ had been in his office and not in a formal interview room. She didn’t think she could have coped with that after everything. The need to be somewhere safe, where she could process the events of the day, was overwhelming. So much had been spiralling around her head.

  Wrapped in one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes, Anna put down her pre-bath gin and tonic. ‘I’m fine. Really. It was all outside and I didn’t notice anything as I arrived Bring me up to date?’

  In New York, Rob grimaced and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms tightly.

  ‘The bomb outside the embassy was in a landscaping van. Confirmed chlorine gas. I think the last count was seventy-five dead and more injured. They’ve sealed the road, forensics are going in. That happened at … what – 3.10? At 3.25, the top deck of a bus blows off in Oxford Street. It’s not pretty.’

  ‘And the social media?’

  ‘Went nuts. There were two earlier confirmed hoaxes, Wimbledon tennis club and Trafalgar Square. People are really starting to panic now.’

  ‘Chlorine gas doesn’t feel like IS, does it? The bus now, they have history on. The 7/7 bombings targeted three Tube trains and a bus.’

  ‘There’s a definite transport link. Some of the guys in Mike’s team are wondering if the van was heading for Victoria station – there’s a coach station there, too apparently. It’s possible the van went off prematurely, maybe with the heat?’

  She looked at Rob in his office in New York as he grimaced. His pale pink shirt was open at the collar, the sleeves rolled back, the fabric strained across his broad chest. He looked delicious. Anna forced herself to take her eyes off his chest and focus on what he was saying. The coach station certainly sounded like a strong target. Anna could imagine a busy terminus, people everywhere. It wasn’t a good thought. And she knew the station itself was huge – constantly busy.

  ‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’

  On the screen, Rob shook his head. ‘There’s a lot of speculation online it could be IS. We’re running all the accounts through the system to find the originators. But if the embassy was the target for the van, there’s a suggestion there might be a Russian link.’

  Anna took a deliberately slow sip of her G&T.

  ‘Because of me?’

  He shrugged. ‘Gotta be open to all the possibilities. And the PR Director of Cybex is Russian.’

  Anna put her glass down, frowning, processing the information.

  ‘The bus crash is too spectacular for the Russians, though. It’s a misfit – it’s not big enough, but too big for them. They like to fly below the horizon, pick off their opponents one by one or go spectacular.’

  In New York, Rob toyed with his phone on the table.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  Anna smiled ruefully, appreciating the concern in his voice. ‘One of these days I’ll just pop over to London and not bring an international incident with me. I saw Mike Wesley earlier, he looked pretty stressed.’

  ‘They’ve still got a lot of people unaccounted for. Gas is a bastard weapon.’ Rob sighed and ran his hand over his eyes. Anna could see the strain on his face. ‘Let’s hope forensics and our analysis throws up some answers. Mike said they’ve got the whole city on alert now. The incidents to-date have all been hoaxes, five total including the two today. These explosions take things to a whole new level.’

  Anna pushed her hair out of her face and a yawn escaped.

  ‘The hoaxes are very carefully orchestrated. They’re clever, designed to spread fear.’

  ‘That’s not hard at the moment. The UK media is full
of the bus incident, linking it to 7/7. There are a lot of parallels. The four bombers who were behind those attacks met in Luton before coming into London, apparently – that’s where the driver of the van lived. Mike’s got people questioning his family and co-workers.’

  ‘You think it is IS?’ Anna leaned in towards the screen.

  ‘They seem to be the most likely suspects.’

  By ten o’clock Anna was almost ready for bed, and very glad she was on her own in an air-conditioned hotel room, as opposed to being stuck in the embassy with a bunch of ageing academics. She put the plug in the bath and switched the taps on, looking for bath bubbles among the intriguing little white bottles on the porcelain plate beside the sink. She’d nearly had a row with Rob about her staying at the American embassy, but she just couldn’t face being grilled by the ambassador tonight, and she knew what Dan Reeve was like. He’d started his career as a spook, like Rob and her brother-in-law Charles. He would have been updated by the Metropolitan Police, and there was nothing she could say that was going to shed any extra light on the situation right now – she’d been inside the building and hadn’t seen a thing.

  It might be different if she could see the intel from the social media accounts. Seeing the way the messages had travelled and where they had originated would give her some insight, and she might be more useful. She’d written a paper about radicalisation for the Goethe-Institut, had presented it there the previous spring. There were markers that indicted that individuals might be pulled in to terrorist activities, but she needed some time to think before she tackled a full analysis. And radical opinion was one thing, but radical action was another step.

  As she slipped into the bath and the hot soapy water, Anna felt her body relax. It certainly hadn’t been the sort of day she’d expected. Ever since Rob had told her that he had to go to London, she’d been daydreaming about cocktails in the Lighthouse Bar in this hotel, about a romantic dinner in the Orlando Brasserie.

  One day when they met, things would go according to plan.

  One day.

  Anna leaned her head against the edge of the bath, lowering her shoulders into the warm water. She’d no idea how anyone could think that she could possibly be a target for the bomb; that was just nonsense. And why let it off in the road if your mark was inside a huge building? The Russians were a lot more efficient than that. They didn’t mess about. That didn’t mean that they hadn’t supplied the bombmaking equipment, of course, but Anna was sure chemical analysis would reveal all the necessary information about where it had been produced.

  Letting the water lap over her, Anna’s thoughts drifted to Brioni and her sister. With a first from Trinity, her sister Marissa Hunt could have done so many things – she still could, but it was always tough getting back into the workplace after you’d been out for a bit. What was happening with her, Anna wondered. She’d felt immediate concern as Steve had talked about her, and then chatting to Brioni, Anna had been stunned to discover Marissa hadn’t answered her sister’s messages. Brioni was such an interesting girl, so very bright and in control of her life. Anna wasn’t so sure that her older sister was in the same position at all.

  Being stuck with Steve while they were in the embassy, she’d chatted to him about Cybex, but she still hadn’t got a complete grasp on what the company did – it was about corporate internet security, firewalls, the secure preservation of data. Steve had mentioned that they employed hackers to try and crack into their own clients’ systems. The hackers had no idea who they worked for, but if Cybex could keep ahead of them, then they were winning. It was fascinating; you could write a whole psychology paper on it.

  Anna stretched in the bath, feeling suddenly very sleepy. She’d arranged to see Isolde for lunch tomorrow in St Pancras – they’d agreed to meet in the hotel there. Anna hadn’t been overly keen on the choice of location. The last time she’d been to St Pancras station, she’d been with Hope and an Irish detective called Cat Connolly. She’d been heading to New Scotland Yard to talk about terrorism, and had got caught up in an incident all of her own. Thankfully she’d got Hope out of the building safely, but it hadn’t ended so well for the others involved.

  Before Anna could dwell on it, she heard her phone pip in the bedroom – she’d left it on the bed. Hauling herself out of the bath, Anna reached for one of the fluffy white towels folded on the rack above the bath and rubbed herself down before slipping her robe on again. She’d really needed to get out of her clothes, and the minute she’d got into the room, she’d put her dress straight into a bag for the hotel laundry.

  Vittoria Devine had been so right about this hotel; Anna had known the moment she’d googled it. Everything about Vittoria said Italian chic, and when she’d first met her at the opening of the exclusive No. 42 jewellery store in Dublin’s Grafton Street, Anna had been amused at how such a tiny woman had such a presence. But she was a former ballerina, so perhaps that was it. Anna had half-heard some women talking about her in the restroom, something about her husband, but Anna had been on her way home by then. She’d sighed inside, knowing she was normally the one who was the subject of bathroom gossip. Whatever had happened to Vittoria, she had said the Hogarth Hotel was very ‘chic’ – Anna had laughed, knowing that no matter how much she practised, she could never give the word quite that much chic herself. Vittoria had said that the hotel was all about attention to detail, and she was right. It had been a very fortuitous meeting, the invitation coming through Rob’s cousin Lily, one of No. 42’s designers. She was English, but based in New York, so she hadn’t been there on the night, but Anna had sent him photos of her stunning designs.

  Anna picked up her phone from the bed. The text wasn’t from Rob, as she’d expected; it was from Isolde.

  So sorry but will need to text in a. m. to confirm lunch. Steve Hunt’s wife was shopping in Oxford St today and he hasn’t heard from her. V worried, checking hospitals now. Donal is helping.

  Jesus.

  Anna pushed her fingers into her auburn hair. She hadn’t even met Marissa Hunt, but would anyone know to tell Brioni? Anna closed her eyes, praying that Marissa was all right.

  Like that day in the bank when she’d prayed her sister Jen was OK.

  She could still smell the fear, the aftermath of the attack. Anna tried to focus on the brilliant white duvet cover, on the embroidered cushions set perfectly against the pillows on the bed. She sat down on it, leaning back and pulling her knees up beneath her.

  Anna texted her reply, her thumb and fingers flying over the keys.

  Marissa Hunt’s sister was working for the caterer you were using. Can you give me their number? She’s been travelling and Steve doesn’t have her contact info.

  Anna paused; it sounded so strange, but families fell out all the time. Anna focused on Brioni’s face. She needed to track her down and tell her about Marissa, and to do that, she needed to focus on something other than a May morning in Paris. Despite all the hours of counselling, it was always there, hovering on the edges of her consciousness. A moment later her phone rang. Isolde. She answered it quickly.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so late. I was about to text back but sometimes it’s easier to talk.’

  ‘I know. We forget in this age of modern communication what phones were originally designed for. How’s Steve Hunt?’

  Anna could hear the concern in Isolde’s voice as she replied.

  ‘Fraught. He went to collect her last night at that church he mentioned and she wasn’t there – she helps at a soup kitchen. She’d told them she was shopping earlier in the afternoon, just before the bomb went off in Oxford Street.’

  Anna winced. Had she been nearby and got caught in the blast from the bus? How absolutely awful for Brioni.

  ‘My God. He’s reported her missing?’

  ‘Yes, yes, the police have her details but there are so many people – the radio news said hundreds injured and seventy-five suspected killed. The bus was full and the blast hit loads of pedestrians. Down here, the g
as was fanned by the breeze.’

  ‘It’s been on the TV, it’s horrific. Does he think she could have been near the bus?’

  Isolde sighed. ‘He doesn’t know. He’s worried she might have been on it. That route goes down past us to Victoria Station. She knew he was going to the embassy – he’s wondering if she could have been coming to meet him.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have called?’

  ‘Perhaps she wanted to surprise him, or tried but the phone signals had already been blocked because of the first bomb. Who knows?’

  Anna shuddered. If Marissa had been on the bus, it could be some time before she was identified. She knew from similar attacks that a large explosion in a confined space did horrific damage. Many of the victims might only be positively identified by DNA, and that all took time.

  ‘Some things are a lot more important than lunch, don’t worry, we can catch up again when things are calmer.’

  ‘Thanks Anna, I’ll get you that number.’

  Anna ended the call. Even though she’d never met her, Anna felt somehow connected to Marissa Hunt. Was it because she’d been to Trinity, because she was Irish, or because she’d met Brioni? She wasn’t sure.

  But where could she be? From the perfect photo on her husband’s phone, Anna wondered if she was the type of person who could cope and survive something like this.

  Anna had always been interested in personality types, about what made people act in a certain way – why some became radicalised, or why some people were more likely to survive an air crash or a shipping disaster than others. From bitter experience, Anna knew she had the type of make-up that just coped in a situation; her thinking was crystal clear, she didn’t need to think about what to do, she just did it, whatever was needed.