by Ian Barclay
“Do you mind if I sit here?” Dartley asked, settling himself in the vacant chair.
The student looked up from his food, a greasy mess of brown meat, gravy, potatoes, and soggy cabbage. He looked more than startled, maybe a bit frightened. His eyes flickered to several empty tables that Dartley might have taken. His eyes met the American’s cold, green killer’s eyes for a moment and he said, “No, I do not mind.”
Dartley made no attempt to politely ease into conversation. “Yesterday’s incident: may be rough on you.”
The student looked down at his food. “Why?”
“Palestinians did it.”
He looked up angrily. “I am not Palestinian. I am from Kuwait. If you know anything, you will know that we jail terrorists, not help them.”
Dartley nodded and continued staring at the student. “Are you an American newspaperman?” the student asked.
“Sometimes I claim I am, but no one believes me.”
“Oh. Very well, I will not ask who you are.”
“Nor I you,” Dartley said agreeably, adding, “if we get along.”
The student was made angry again by this veiled threat. “I have a status in this country. My government sent me to Christ Church—”
“You could be found in the river in a burlap bag,” Dartley told him in a low, serious voice.
There was a certain earnest note of conviction in the American’s voice which made the Kuwaiti sit very still.
Dartley went on, “I want to hear what you Arab students have been saying to each other. Do you all know that Palestinians were responsible?”
“I haven’t seen another Arab student since early yesterday. Maybe they are staying in their rooms today. I should have.”
“Don’t play games with me. Someone told you something.”
“I swear to you, I have not spoken with a fellow Arab since early yesterday.”
“What did he say?”
“Go on.”
“It happened the day before yesterday. She was near the back gate of Christ Church and saw a man come out. She paid no notice until he hailed another man nearer her in Arabic. They did not notice her. She desperately wanted to talk with them, I think because one of them was very handsome. But she held back because she is a Moslem woman and also because she was dressed in a style some Arabs would consider immodest. She followed them and listened so she could tell by their accents where they were from. If they had been Saudis or Kuwaitis, she would not have dared approach them, since so many of us are highly conservative. But these were Palestinians and she is an Egyptian. Most of those two nationalities are liberal by strict Islamic standards. Just as she was about to call to them a car drove up, then they jumped in and sped away.”
“What did she hear them say?”
“The one who came out of Christ Church sounded pleased and said something about the timing being correct. The handsome one who met him said that a lot of this college’s students become members of Parliament. Then he said something that puzzled her. He said that next time they would not travel so far, they would bring things right to Fleet Street’s doorstep.”
“Fleet Street is where the big London newspapers have offices. You think he meant one of them?”
“No,” the student answered. “He did not say Fleet Street, he said Fleet Street’s doorstep—that’s my translation from the Arabic, which has a different construction. Something very close to-Fleet Street.”
Dartley could never find his way around London’s tangle of streets without the aid of a pocket map. He pulled one out, laid it flat on the table, and located Fleet Street. “St. Paul’s Cathedral is nearby.”
The student shook his head and placed his finger on another spot. “The Old Bailey, as British people call their Central Criminal Court. In four days’ time two Libyans are due to go on trial for illegally entering the country with explosives. The surrounding area will no doubt be heavily guarded when their trial starts, but probably not now.”
Dartley looked at the map again and pointed to the other end of Fleet Street. “What about the Royal Courts of Justice?”
“Only civil cases are tried there, no criminal cases. Besides, it’s not a well-known landmark like the Old Bailey. The Inns of Court are close by too, but I see no point in bothering with them.”
“I want you to know that if you are lying to me, I will come after you and kill you. I don’t have to know your name to find you.”
“I’m not lying,” the student insisted.
“Better not be. I’m going to alert the police about what you’ve told me. I hope it’s not too late.”
“I already have,” the student said matter-of-factly. “I telephoned at six this morning, having spent a sleepless night. I didn’t give my name, but I think my Arab accent impressed them.” He smiled grimly. “I told you that we Kuwaitis do not support terrorism.”
His having informed the authorities certainly explained the Arab student’s aura of fear. Informers were dealt with harshly. Dartley was inclined to believe his story and intended to make a backup call to the police himself. A second anonymous call with the same information could hardly be ignored. Dartley himself had no official contacts or information sources on this case in Britain. He knew only what he read in the papers and saw on TV. No doubt the British government censored all that. Yet he had to find some way to anticipate the Palestinians’ moves or locate them. He could not hang around the Old. Bailey for fear of being picked up in a police dragnet. He was powerless to do anything except make careful inquiries and await the outcome of any attack on the Old Bailey.
He snapped out of his deep thought and saw the Kuwaiti student nervously watching him. “The waitress still hasn’t come to take my order,” he complained. “The service in this place is awful.” He stood up and headed for the door.
Group-Captain Godfrey Bradshaw met General Gerrit van Gilder’s plane at London airport. No fuss was made—he had to pass through immigration and customs like anyone else. An M.I.5 security man identified him for the group-captain as he came out of the customs area.
“Delighted finally to meet you, van Gilder,” Bradshaw said, extending his hand to the stocky, almost-bald Dutchman.
No use of rank or respect either, the general noted. He somewhat grumpily shook hands with the British military intelligence agent. Bradshaw sported an RAF mustache, a tweed jacket, and a red paisley cravat in his open-necked shirt. Van Gilder also noticed that he had a head of indecently healthy-looking hair.
“We better hurry, old boy,” Bradshaw told him. “We have a full day in front of us. I’ll brief you as we drive.”
The car was an ancient Jaguar, an open two-seater. In spite of its age it accelerated as if a jet engine had been installed beneath the hood.
“I know you won’t mind, old boy, if we stop off first at my tailor.”
Van Gilder didn’t mind. He felt a bit stiff in his dark suit next to Bradshaw’s sporty attire. They left the Jag in a hotel garage at Hyde Park Corner and turned off Park Lane into Curzon Street.
“Care to pop in here for a moment?” Bradshaw asked.
Thinking they were going for a drink, van Gilder nodded, only to see that Trumper’s was not a pub but an old-fashioned barbershop. The inside was paneled with dark, polished wood, sporting prints lined the walls, and the voices were quiet and superior in tone. Van Gilder was escorted into a wooden cubicle and sat before a huge ornate sink, over which hung a photograph of King Edward VIII and some old signs advertising mustache curling and badger shaving brushes. The barber pulled across a red velvet curtain behind him, which was a blessing of privacy for a man with as little hair on his head as van Gilder.
What Bradshaw had told him so far had thoroughly upset him. First, it seemed that Scotland Yard had been contacted from a public phone in Oxford at six that morning by a man speaking with an Arab accent—from Kuwait, according to experts who later heard the tape. His information was that the Old Bailey would be attacked today or in the next few days. An Americ
an caller, also from Oxford, gave the same information only a short while ago, which Bradshaw learned when he telephoned in to headquarters after parking the car. M.I.5 or possibly M.I.6’s decision on this seemed incredible to the Dutchman. Instead of sealing off the entire area with security cordons, they were going to allow the attack to develop and counter it with in-place special security units.
When he protested the decision vehemently, Bradshaw only shrugged and said the responsibility was out of his hands. This caused van Gilder to mutter in Dutch that he should be seeing men of his own rank who would be responsible for such decisions.
But this was not all. Bradshaw said casually that disinformation had been fed to the media that the Irish government was about to announce its decision to sign. This was expected to rid Britain of the terrorists if they were not caught at the Old Bailey.
“Won’t the Irish government suspect and be furious with you?” van Gilder asked.
Bradshaw smiled. “The Irish are always furious with us.”
There was more. They would not be going to the Old Bailey, because Bradshaw had some kind of tea party to attend. His wife had the flu and he was taking van Gilder along ín her place.
“Can’t you drop me at the Old Bailey and go alone?” van Gilder asked in an aggrieved tone.
“Can’t be done. I have to stick by you. Come along, you’ll probably have a good time. Those bloody Arabs can wait.”
Bradshaw paid for the haircuts and they walked along Curzon Street toward Bond Street. Kilgour, the Savile Row tailor, was between Bond and Regent streets. Van Gilder did not want to go in. Bradshaw insisted. The tailors stared aghast at van Gilder’s off-the-rack Italian suit, which he had felt looked very dignified only a short while ago. Bradshaw appeared after a few minutes in his made-to-order double-breasted pin-striped suit.
“Double vents, four buttons on the sleeve with real buttonholes, plenty of shirt cuff showing, dull horn buttons, hand-stitched silk lining,” Bradshaw listed. “Without those, old boy, you simply don’t have a presentable suit.”
“If you pay for it, I’ll order one,” the Dutchman offered.
Bradshaw guffawed, looked at his watch, and said they should be off—wouldn’t do to be late at the garden party. Van Gilder wondered who in hell was having a garden party in the middle of the city.
They strode down Bond Street, along Piccadilly, across Green Park to the Mall, then joined a line in front of the iron gates of Buckingham Palace. Many of the men in line wore a pearl gray tie and vest, striped pants, and cutaway coat. In contrast the women were demurely dressed in quiet colors and unstartling fashions.
“This is the Queen’s garden party. But don’t expect to chat with her, van Gilder; there will be eight thousand people here.”
Bradshaw wasn’t exaggerating. There were at least eight thousand on the fifty-acre lawn of the Palace Gardens, plus three tents— one of them enormous—and two military bands playing show tunes.
“The wife was very disappointed at not being able to come,” Bradshaw explained. “It’s a bit of an honor to be here, you see. Well, I expect you’ll meet her later on. You’ll stay with us, of course. We have a place in Surrey. Nice at this time of the year.”
Van Gilder saw some Arabs, bearded and solemn, with traditional headdress over Western-style suits—probably Saudi princes or sheiks.
There had been almost no security precautions as far as the Dutchman was aware, no metal detectors, no photo-identity checks. Each pair of guests just handed in their invitation and were admitted. Van Gilder had seen more security around a second-rate diplomatic event.
The Beefeaters, pikemen in gold and scarlet uniforms, herded the guests politely to clear a way for the Queen. She walked through on her way to the royal tent, stopping occasionally to shake someone’s hand and say a few words.
Van Gilder saw Bradshaw came to full military attention as she passed, an almost instinctive reaction on the part of an old military man, even at a garden party. He finally understood that a handful of terrorists were not enough to keep this Englishman from his monarch’s tea party.
* * *
“Military-grade weapons are impossible to obtain right now,” Naim Shabaan told the other two in the Redcliffe Square apartment. “I offered to pay top prices in dollars, but there’s nothing on the market except cheap handguns. Our IRA contact says they haven’t raided any army bases in Britain recently, and whatever they buy on the Continent is shipped to Northern Ireland. So it looks as if we’ll have tp make do with whatever we can lay our hands on.”
“The nails and plastic explosive worked well enough for us at Oxford,” Ali Khalef said with a smirk. They had just heard of another law professor’s death over the radio.
“It’s the place where the attack occurs that counts now, regardless of how many we kill,” Naim said. “We could gain a higher body count with a device placed in a store or in the Underground. I think it’s more important for us to strike at well-known places than to try to kill the maximum number of people. They’ll be expecting us at the Old Bailey in a few days’ time, but not this afternoon.”
Hasan Shawa looked doubtful. “When I passed there in the car an hour ago, I didn’t like what I saw. It was too quiet. People seemed to be in a hurry to come in and go out of the courthouse. There were small groups of men stationed around, some at the edge of the street. Not one uniformed policeman in sight. I believe they’re waiting for us.”
“Of course they are,” Naim said. “They’re guarding every potential target in Britain round the clock. That’s why we have to hit one of those to make a strong impression. An Underground station or the Regent’s Park Zoo would be too easy. That would be cowardice on our part, at least in their eyes. But if we come right at them, in spite of their vigilance, and succeed, then we will hurt them. They will know that nothing is safe then. At that point they will squabble among themselves, the weak one blaming the strong. Then you will hear that the announcement of the intention to sign has been postponed. But not if we back down and start hitting safe targets. If we do that, they will see that they have won and we are in retreat. We have to stay on the attack. No matter what defenses they put up, we must be cleverer than them, more daring.”
“With a shotgun, a bag of nails, and some plastique?” Hasan asked mockingly.
Naim’s eyes glittered. “With our bare hands if we have to.”
Hasan no longer challenged him.
Naim finished sanding the wood handle of a toilet plunger. He slid the wood handle into the barrel of the shotgun. It was a tight, perfect fit. Next he two-thirds filled the plunger’s rubber suction cup with three-inch nails. On top of those he placed a thick cake of plastic explosive, which he crimped around the edges of the suction cup like a cook crimps the edges of the pastry dough around an uncooked pie. He pushed three impact detonators into the explosive, making a triangle.
The gun was cheap, a single-barrel single-shot breechloader. With a knife he picked out the circular card at the end of a cartridge and spilled out the shot. Having broken the shotgun, he loaded the cartridge into the breech so that the base of the plunger handle fitted tightly into it. Náim closed the gun, leaned it in a corner, and wiped his hands with satisfaction.
“They’ll be looking for something big,” he said to the others. “They won’t be expecting anything small-scale and at a distance. We go in once, that’s all, win or lose. If there’s no one in the entranceway or the doors are closed, I’ll aim it through a window.”
So they would not lose each other in traffic, they drove along the Thames all the way, Hasan driving the first car with Naim in the backseat, and Ali alone in the second car. They turned left at Blackfriars Bridge, rounded Ludgate Circus, went along Ludgate Hill, and turned left into Old Bailey, the street which gave its name to the Central Criminal Court. The courthouse was at the other end of the street from them, on their right. Since traffic drove on the left, they would be attacking from the far side of the street to the courthouse. Security men
would not be expecting this. Another advantage was that they could hang a quick left turn onto Holborn Viaduct and avoid being trapped where they were.
“You see the two cars pulled in over there, a driver in each?” Hasan asked urgently. “There’s two more farther up. Look at those men standing there. See that one with the loose coat I bet he has a submachine gun under it.”
“Keep going,” Naim said from the backseat, calmly rolling down the right rear side window. “Ali is right behind us. He’s the one who will have to take most of the heat.”
“You better cock your pistol,” Hasan said, doing it to his weapon and placing it on the seat beside him. “I see trouble ahead.”
Naim had bought three Llama .38 semiautomatic pistols, which were the best he could find, though he would have preferred a heavier caliber. The Spanish nine-shot was a quality weapon, known to be reliable. Naim cocked his pistol, put it on the seat, and reached for the shotgun lying on the floor, loaded with its missile.
The rear side window was rolled down all the way. As they came nearly opposite the courthouse, Naim stuck out the barrel and loaded suction cup through the window to take a shot through traffic passing in the opposite direction. No sooner had the shotgun barrel protruded from the car window than they were hit with a hail of fire. Bullets scraped off the car roof and punctured its side. They flew in the open windows. Naim felt the wind of one bullet on his cheek before he ducked down out of sight.
Hasan accelerated and Ali kept close behind them. The security men stopped firing for fear of hitting Ali, whom they yet had no reason to suspect of involvement. It was true that he was traveling fast close behind the getaway car, but every other driver who could was also getting away as fast as he could from the gunfire.
As Hasan made the left onto Holborn Viaduct, two cars pulled in on the courthouse side, crossed traffic, and tried to cut him off. A second too late, the lead car scraped its left front wing along their side and had to be content to try to get in behind them. The driver cut in sharply in front of Ali. Instead of braking, Ali gave his car the gas and hit the intruding car on its front door. The force of Ali’s impact and continuing acceleration knocked the security car out of their lane and into oncoming traffic on Holborn Viaduct.
