Kate and Rafi were the first to arrive at the interview room. They sat down and waited. Minutes later John and the politician arrived.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ apologised John. ‘The junior minister had to wash his hands.’
The junior minister, flanked by John and Kate, sat opposite Rafi.
‘I went to see you at Paddington Green this morning only to find you weren’t there. I was redirected to MI5 headquarters – most irregular – and they said I’d have to come here for the full story. I’ve wasted much valuable time and am in no mood to be messed around. Mr Khan, what I need to know is why you aren’t helping the police with their search for the terrorists,’ said the frustrated junior minister.
Rafi looked blankly across the table and remained silent.
‘Thanks to you we had more terrorist attacks last night. Your resistance and reluctance to help are setting a very bad example to the Muslim community. I am advised that a growing number of extremist youngsters are becoming your followers. This is extremely bad for the country. I am here to give you an ultimatum: either you cooperate or I will throw the book at you and your family, do you hear? What do you have to say?’
Rafi looked at the junior minister: at his pale blue doublecuffed shirt, the light pink tie, the immaculate grey suit and the perfectly combed hair. If things weren’t so serious he would have laughed at his pomposity and the bizarre nature of the interview.
‘Are you threatening me and my family?’
‘Damn right I am! Your type should know what they’re up against when they tangle with the Government. You’re outside the laws that protect decent and innocent Englishmen. You should be sent home.’
Rafi’s temper was rising – valuable time was being wasted. ‘I am dark-skinned and a Muslim. Why does that make me and my family undesirable? Answer me that and I’ll help you with your questions.’
The minister was silent for a moment. ‘It is your damn fundamentalism that’s the problem – only permitting one God.’ He paused. ‘And you debase all other religions and criminalise the pursuit of wealth and personal advancement. Your brand of fundamentalism is not only myopic, but it is detrimental to a modern society. You’re all the same: out to undermine our democracy. We will stop you, you know. Your approach to life will be stamped out and the likes of you will be removed from this country.’
Rafi sensed the junior minister was spouting forth a well-rehearsed monologue. ‘Is that your view or the view of others?’ he said trying to conceal his anger.
‘My boss, a senior minister in the Home Office, agrees with me. Fanatical Muslims have no place here. Once our backs are turned, all you want to do is to bring down our democracy.’
Rafi wanted out. Time was ticking away and the idiot on the other side of the table was being absurd.
‘Sir,’ said Rafi, ‘I’m innocent until proved guilty. Find the evidence and then try me.’
The junior minister lost his cool. ‘Of course you’re bloody guilty – we all know that! The CCTV footage alone will convict you. I’ve the press outside waiting for me. I need something to tell them which will make a good story to deflect the coverage of all the horrors you’ve caused. Will you cooperate? Or shall I personally make your life and your family’s not worth living?’
Rafi sat there, too furious to answer.
Without warning, John stood up. ‘Sir, you’re not making any progress. Mr Khan is obviously not going to help you.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Inspector? Don’t you know who I am? I’m your boss’s boss! I won’t take orders from anyone, let alone a junior policeman!’
John kept his cool.
There was a knock at the door. The telephonist burst in.
‘DI Adams, I’ve an urgent message for you.’ She passed the piece of paper across the table to her.
The junior minister grabbed it. ‘I’ll see that.’
Kate looked at her. ‘What did it say?’
‘Rick someone asked for you to call him urgently.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Kate and dashed for the door.
The junior minister was taken aback. He shouted after her. ‘You can’t leave until I’ve finished with you. Come back here this instant!’
Kate was long gone.
John stood up and looked piercingly at the junior minister. ‘I strongly suggest you stay here,’ he said authoritatively. ‘The constable outside and I will escort Mr Khan back to his cell – in case he does any more damage. You should see the mess he made of the three guards at Paddington Green – nearly killed one of them. He’s a third Dan karate black belt. See his right wrist? He felled a nineteen-stone guard and fractured his jaw.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ squealed the ruffled junior minister. At this Rafi stood up and started to move towards him.
‘No, get back!’ shouted John. ‘He isn’t worth it.’
‘Get him out of here!’ shouted the squirming junior minister.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll take Mr Kahn to the cells and return to discuss how we can give your press friends a good story.’
‘Do that and don’t be long.’
John and Rafi left. John locked the door, turned to the police constable and handed him the key.
‘Under no circumstances let him out until the commissioner or I get here. Understood? Whatever the minister says, ignore him!’
‘Yes sir. But what about Mr Khan here? Will you be safe with him?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, what about his karate skills?’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear!’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Rafi, go and help Kate; I must contact the commissioner before the minister gets on his mobile and does something even more crass.’
Rafi raced back to the office. Kate was on the phone to Rick; she switched on the speaker.
‘I’ve had another go at interviewing Mr Wesson,’ said Rick. ‘By accident, Wesson overheard Basel Talal and his property director discussing a building in Stratford, which they said would be untraceable. Basel described it as the jewel in the crown and added that its location was one where they’d make a killing. You’re looking for an industrial property in Stratford, East London; it’s undergoing refurbishment.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kate, ‘You’re a star!’
She hung up and rushed out of the room. Rafi was about to follow her when her phone rang. It was the switchboard.
‘There’s an urgent message from Roger Harewood; he wanted to check that you got the fax.’
Rafi hung up, rushed over to the fax machine, scooped up the sheet of paper sitting there and ran to the Ops Room, oblivious to all his aches and pains – and his lack of shoes. He briefly looked at the contents of the fax as he ran. It read: URGENT – I tried to phone. My notes are sketchy. The cold store is a large industrial building located between Billingsgate and the A12 in East London. It is being refurbished. Hope this helps. – Roger Harewood.
As he passed the meeting room where Emma was, he banged on the door and called for her to follow. Seconds later he barged into the Ops Room, skidded to a halt and shouted to Kate, waving the fax in his hand.
‘Roger confirms: it’s between Billingsgate and the A12; a large industrial property currently being refurbished.’
Rafi prayed that they weren’t too late and that the valuable minutes wasted with the junior minister would not be their undoing.
At 9.56 a.m. the PM finished briefing COBRA on the events of the past thirty-six hours.
The video-conference link showing the Wood Street Ops Room was switched on. The PM introduced the Air Chief Marshal, Sir Nigel Hawser, and asked him to update COBRA on the whereabouts of the missing terrorist.
Suddenly, the door behind the Air Chief Marshal burst open and in rushed a scruffy looking policewoman closely followed by a dark-skinned individual with an unshaven face, in a Harlequins rugby shirt, waving a piece of paper and shouting…
Kate and Rafi didn’t stand
on ceremony and cut across the PM.
‘We have found the location of the last terrorist. He’s at a large industrial property in Stratford, East London, between the A12 and Billingsgate fish market. It’s being refurbished. I hope it won’t be too difficult to spot from the air.’
‘What’s the target at Stratford?’ asked the PM.
‘Could there be a nuclear waste train in transit near there?’ suggested Emma, who had arrived at the door. ‘It is the only thing left on our list that could fit.’
‘Find out, now!’ instructed the Air Chief Marshal to Colonel Turner. ‘Find the building and then the target should become obvious.’
At that moment John walked in. He sidled over to Rafi and passed him the tape of the interview with the junior minister. He said quietly, ‘I thought that you might like to have the tape as a memento.’
‘Thanks…’ said Rafi tucking the tape into his pocket. ‘They’re looking for the last location; it’s near Stratford, in East London.’
Meanwhile the Air Chief Marshal was on the scrambler. ‘What air cover do we have? A fighter over Sizewell in Suffolk? Excellent! Get it over Stratford as quickly as is physically possible.’
‘There’s also a Tornado preparing to land at Marham, in Norfolk,’ said the squadron leader on a video link with the Ops Room.
‘Get it here in double quick time,’ ordered the Air Chief Marshal.
‘Commissioner, alert the nearest police helicopter and get it to Stratford. The first to arrive will have to locate and take out the terrorist.’
The brigadier called across. ‘The Tornado will be at Stratford in seven minutes and the Jaguar from Suffolk will be there in eight and a half minutes. I’ve alerted the nearest anti-terrorist squad and they’ll be in the area in twenty-two minutes.’
‘Tell the pilots to look for a scaffolding tower, or a platform on the roof of an industrial building overlooking the railway tracks,’ ordered the brigadier.
The colonel meanwhile was getting agitated. He was having a frustrating time finding out where the nearest nuclear waste train was. The clock showed it was just after 9.58 a.m. He’d dialled through on the direct line of the control room coordinating nuclear trains, but he was being given the runaround by the computer-controlled switchboard.
‘Oh damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody lift music! What on earth do they think that they are – some poncey retail store?’
A woman finally answered, apologising for the delay. ‘If you’ve come through to me, it means that either the phones in the control room are engaged or the people are busy.’
‘Do you work in the same building as the control room for the nuclear trains?’ enquired the colonel.
‘Yes; they’re on the floor above me.’
‘Excellent! Go right now and get someone in authority to pick up my call immediately. There’s an accident waiting to happen. This is vitally important – do it now!’
With that, the phone reverted back to what the colonel described as ‘bloody bog music’. His face had gone from a normal shade of pink through the spectrum to a bright red. A meek voice came on the phone a minute later.
‘Please excuse the delay… You caught me with my trousers down. How can I help?’ came the response.
‘Do you know the whereabouts of any nuclear trains near Stratford?’
‘Er… Yes and no,’ came an uncertain reply. ‘Sorry I’m not that sure; this is only my first week here. The board shows that there’s one scheduled to pass through Stratford. My boss has gone outside for a moment.’
‘Is there anyone else with you who can help us?’
‘Not really, my boss is away from his desk…’
‘Find him as quickly as humanly possible.’
‘He won’t like being disturbed,’ came the unfortunate reply.
‘Get him now; tell him there’s an emergency and you’ve COBRA on the phone.’
‘You what?’
‘Just get him, now. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Will do!’
Rafi looked up at the clock; it was 10 o’clock. He looked around the room. Everyone was holding their breath; there was a deathly hush. Moments later, the voice of an aggravated man came on the phone.
‘What do you want?’ he barked.
‘Do you have a nuclear train anywhere near Stratford?’ The colonel barked back.
‘Damn it! Who the hell are you?’ came the abrupt reply.
‘Colonel Bill Turner of the anti-terrorist squad; I have the Prime Minister alongside me.’
‘No shit!’ was the reply.
‘Do as he says, now!’ commanded the PM in a stern voice. ‘And before you ask, yes, I am the Prime Minister.’
‘Hold on a moment. Yes, the Sizewell train is running slightly late; it has just left Stratford station and is entering the North London branch line.’
The Colonel shouted down the phone, ‘Tell them to do an emergency stop!’
The voice of the controller was heard over the speaker. ‘Dick, STOP! Stop your train immediately; there’s a terrorist threat!’
‘Where exactly is the train, now?’
‘About 600 metres down the spur line past Stratford.’
‘Get it to back up the main line!’
‘That’s against the rules; I can’t do that!’
‘Do as he says,’ came the uncompromising voice of the PM.
The colonel continued, ‘Get all the trains on the main line stopped.’
‘One flaming thing at a time.’
‘Get them to back up now!’ barked the Colonel. ‘Get them to do it before it’s too late!’
‘Keep your hair on! They’re starting to back up as we speak.’
There was an expletive heard over the phone, followed by a couple of sentences heavily laced with choice words.
‘Did I hear you say that your train has disappeared off the screen… and the radio connection with them has been lost?’
‘Y..yes,’ stammered the coordinator. ‘There was a loud bang and they’ve effing disappeared off the screen.’
Rafi looked across at the clock; it read 10.02 a.m.
The shaky voice of the controller came back on the line. ‘I can confirm that I’ve lost contact with the driver and the satellite positioning marker is no longer functioning.’
The brigadier interrupted the silence. ‘The Tornado is one and a half minutes away.’
Rafi felt spellbound and sick with apprehension. They’d found the missing piece of the jigsaw, but were they seconds too late?
The voice of the Tornado fighter pilot came over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s been one – now two – explosions! The target is a train, just west of Stratford station.’
The Ops Room meanwhile had been patched into the pilot’s on-board camera showing an orange ball of flames erupting high into the air, and the remains of the train strewn across the track -one of the nuclear canisters was missing its front half and the top of the second canister was no longer there. Black smoke spiralled up into the sky, drifting north-west in the light wind.
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to the fighter pilot, who had received the grid reference for the property.
‘Can you identify the terrorist’s position?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
‘Is the building occupied or unoccupied?’
‘Hard to tell sir – it looks vacant.’
‘If you have him on visual, take him out before he fires another missile.’
The terrorist looked across at the burning train wreckage from the top of his scaffolding tower. Radiation would soon be all around him. He launched himself over the side and abseiled from view.
You could have heard a pin drop. That was what they were after – London – the business capital of Europe and the venue of the 2012 Olympics.
It was a disaster.
Having foiled the other attacks, Rafi found it hard to take on board the impact of this terrorist success. He had known that the stakes were high an
d the consequences would be grave if a nuclear catastrophe occurred, but the reality was numbing.
Emma looked at Kate and Rafi. ‘Sweet Jesus help us! There’s around two tonnes of spent nuclear fuel in the air,’ said Emma, with a lump in her throat, ‘which is something like 20 kg of plutonium and 40 kg of other radioactive particles on the loose.’
The service chiefs had been trained to work under pressure and they were already making plans to deal with the calamity. The Air Chief Marshal spoke via the video links to the Army HQ at Wilton and then to the colonel standing next to him.
‘Activate Operation Counterpane. I repeat, activate Operation Counterpane. Brigadier, advise the Royal Netherlands Air Force that we need every helicopter they can spare, pronto.’
Colonel Gray spoke to the Prime Minister, who had turned a whiter shade of pale.
‘Sir, I suggest that you activate LESLP – London Emergency Services Liaison Panel – immediately. The Metropolitan police are on standby. Although control rests with you and your colleagues at COBRA in the first instance, sir, I suggest that you ask us to coordinate the military element required to contain the disaster, and to oversee the evacuation and the decontamination process for the time being.’
‘Carry on,’ replied the PM. ‘I have two nuclear experts with me who will advise you on the size of the exclusion zone.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The video link camera at COBRA was swung round and two middle-aged professors came on to the Wood Street Ops Room screen. They spoke to the Air Chief Marshal and explained what data they would require.
En route to the nuclear train, from Colchester Barracks, was a helicopter equipped with radioactivity-sensing devices. Like many others, it had been placed on standby by the brigadier in the early hours of the morning as part of Operation Counterpane. The helicopter pilot radioed through that he would be over the train in seventeen minutes.
‘For the time being, gentlemen,’ said the professors, ‘we recommend an exclusion zone of one mile upwind and four miles downwind. We will give you the precise figures shortly after we have the data in from the helicopter.’
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