by Tom Cain
He could hear the Americans talking to their headquarters.
‘I saw muzzle-flash,’ one was saying.
‘I have a location,’ the other added, virtually simultaneously.
At the front of the crowd, the dignitaries nearest to the stage were desperately trying to get away and their panic had already begun to infect those around them.
Meanwhile the whore had barely moved at all, paralysed by indecision and fear. All was not yet lost. At least he could get her.
Tyzack pressed the red button on his display and the grenades were released. For a fraction of a second, as he launched the attack, his gaze had dropped to the iPhone. When he looked up there was another figure on the stage. A tall, spindly young man in glasses was racing towards the whore. He wrapped his arms around her, held her tight and then leaped off the front of the stage.
An instant later the grenades struck the stage at exactly the point where Lincoln Roberts had been standing. They detonated in a pair of orange and yellow fireballs that blasted superheated fragments of steel shrapnel through the air, shredding the screen that had withstood the gunshots, destroying the backdrop, ripping into the lighting rigs above and to the sides of the speaking area and killing several members of the stage crew, as well as a Secret Service agent who had not yet got offstage.
The main force of the blast, having exploded some ten feet above the ground, went over the heads of the crowd in the immediate vicinity, though several people further back were killed and many more wounded by shrapnel particles that travelled up to two hundred yards from the impact point. Tyzack’s attention, however, was concentrated on the foot of the stage where the whore’s body lay motionless on the ground, next to that of the young man who had tried to rescue her.
For a moment Tyzack felt a brief flutter of hope, a tiny scintilla of optimism amidst the bleak disappointment of the failed mission. But even that shred of good news was taken from him as the whore slowly pulled herself out from under the man’s body, staggered to her feet and then, when she saw that the figure was utterly inert, started screaming with a desperate despair that seemed to Tyzack to echo his own feelings.
Perhaps he should put the silly bitch out of her misery.
There was nothing to stop him shooting her. It was a fiendishly tricky shot but there was no risk from the Secret Service. They knew that their President was safe. Tyzack could always claim to have aimed at a fleeing suspect.
He unholstered his weapon and then stopped as he heard one of the Americans say, ‘I have a visual on the roof from which the shots were fired. There is a man down, repeat a man down. Another man appears to be vacating the area. He is approximately six feet tall, slim to medium build, dark brown hair, wearing civilian clothes: black pants, possibly jeans, and some kind of grey top.’
Carver, thought Tyzack with rancid bitterness.
Forget the whore. It was time to go. Tyzack wasn’t afraid of being caught by any British or American security forces and he certainly wasn’t scared of Carver. But the absolute certainty of Arjan Visar’s displeasure, and its potentially fatal consequences, meant that he needed to disappear. Starting right now.
He walked towards the door that led to the stairway down to the top floor of the building. When he got there he turned and said, ‘Bye, chaps.’
The two Secret Service men turned towards him, an automatic reflex, acknowledging his farewell. Tyzack killed them both with two single headshots. It was time, he decided, that he made sure witnesses were definitely, undeniably dead. Furthermore, it was always a delight, the sort of thing that only a true connoisseur could appreciate, to see the fractional look of surprise on the face of the second of two victims as they realized what had just happened to their companion an instant before it happened to them, too. And finally, he was seriously pissed off, and the sheer pleasure of inflicting death took the edge, at least, off his anger.
91
Just as he was about to get off the roof, Carver heard two shots from high up the tower closest to the stage. He looked up and saw a male figure on the roof; only the top half of him visible above the parapet. From that distance Carver was unable to make out his face. Nor could he see the distinctive flash of red hair. And yet he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it was Tyzack. His outline, his movements, everything about him had become so familiar and their relationship had, in its own warped way, become as intertwined as a pair of lovers, so that awareness of his presence was automatic, instinctive. The location made sense, too. It was the highest, closest point to the stage, the perfect vantage point from which to direct a low-level aerial attack.
In his earpiece Carver was receiving a babble of frenzied chatter as different units reported in on the current position of the President and other VIPs, the state of the crowd and the arrival of emergency services at the stage.
Then he heard: ‘All units be aware, we have reports that the initial shots were fired by a white male, height six feet, medium build, answering to the description of Samuel Carver, a civilian consultant on the security for this event. He is believed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Approach with extreme caution.’
Carver was racing downstairs now. He switched to transmit and said, ‘This is Carver.’ He was painfully aware how strange his voice must sound, his throat wrecked and his breathing ragged as he hurtled down the stairwell. ‘Yes, I deliberately fired at the President’s protective screens. But in case you morons hadn’t noticed, I saved his life. I’d been trying to warn you he was about to be attacked and you refused to listen. What else was I supposed to do?’
‘Carver, this is Assistant Commissioner Manners. Give yourself up, immediately. That’s an order. If your story is true, you have nothing to fear.’
‘Forget it. I’m going after Tyzack.’
‘Tyzack? Give it a rest, Carver. He isn’t here. To be honest, I wonder if he even exists.’
‘Really? Then who planted two grenades on the stage you were tasked to protect? Who has shot at least one, possibly two people on the roof of that tower right by the stage? I heard the shots. I saw Tyzack. Go on, do a flypast with one of your drones. Tell me I’m wrong. But I’m not coming in.’
Carver had reached the ground floor of the building. He was halfway across the main foyer, heading for the front entrance, when a West Country voice came over his earpiece: ‘We have a visual, two men down, as reported.’
‘Is the drone still in the area?’ Carver asked, pushing open the door. ‘If so, do you see a man wearing black special forces combat uniform anywhere near the foot of the building? He’s trying to get away, so he’ll be moving fast.’
As he said the words, Carver was aware how absurd they sounded. All around him were tens of thousands of people trying to get away from Broad Quay, all moving as fast as they could go. This was like the scene inside the King Haakon Hotel, magnified a thousandfold. If Tyzack had half a brain he’d have done what Carver had not and left by a rear entrance, on to one of the back streets, away from the quay.
‘Look to the east and south of the building!’ he shouted. ‘Got anything?’
Carver didn’t wait for an answer. He was already fighting his way through the mass of people, moving past the tower where Tyzack had been positioned. Then he heard a crackle in his ear followed by, ‘Yes! We have a possible sighting, moving south along King William Avenue in the direction of Queen Square.’
Carver thought back to the presentation Manners had given in Dame Agatha Bewley’s office. Queen Square was somewhere to the south of where he was now. He looked up at the sky. It was midday. Wherever the sun was, that was south.
There was no sun. The sky was grey with low-lying cloud. But one patch of cloud looked marginally less dismal than the rest, as though some light was trying to force its way through. Carver ran in the direction of the light. He forced his way past another group of people and suddenly he was on a virtually deserted street. Ahead of him was a small pedestrian area, laid out in paving stones between patches of grass, that la
y at the foot of a couple of office buildings. As he ran on, he saw that there was a gap between the buildings and at the end of it was the corner of a much larger open space, surrounded by trees. That must be Queen Square. He kept moving through the gap, across a road, up to the trees and then flung himself to the ground as he heard a crack of pistol-fire, followed by a stinging sensation on the right-hand side of his face as it was hit by splinters from the impact of a bullet on the tree-trunk right beside him.
‘We have you on our screen,’ said the voice in his ear. ‘Tyzack is ahead.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Carver. ‘I gathered.’
‘He’s moving again, approximately sixty to seventy metres ahead of you, along the same line of trees.’
Carver got to his feet and started running down the road side of the line of trees. He could not see Tyzack, so he cut though the trees on to Queen Square itself to get a better view. Now he spotted Tyzack, almost at the end of the square.
Tyzack stopped, aimed and fired three shots. He set off again, ducking back into the trees, out of Carver’s line of sight.
The pattern of bobbing, weaving, firing and taking cover continued as Tyzack turned left along the southern border of the square. But Carver seemed to be dropping behind with every step. The punishment he had taken in the barn might not have done him any fatal harm, but it had seriously weakened him. This was a race he was going to lose. As he reached the south end of the square, Carver looked around. Tyzack had disappeared. He’d lost him.
‘Where is he?’ Carver panted, barely managing a jog.
‘Hang on, can’t see him… wait… yes! Got him! He’s heading for the pontoon at the end of Grove Avenue, about a hundred metres from where you are now. He’s on the pontoon now. We’ve got units heading in that direction. He can’t get away unless… He’s got a boat. He’s casting off the lines.’
Carver wasn’t going to make it to the dock in time. But there was another way to get him.
‘There’s a bridge somewhere round here. How do I get to it?’
‘Prince Street Bridge, yes. From where you are, turn right. The junction with Prince Street is about forty metres ahead.’
‘I can see it.’
‘Turn left on that and follow your nose. You can’t miss it.’
Carver was out on his feet. Then he thought of Thor Larsson’s burned and mutilated body lying next to him outside that barn. He thought of Karin and their unborn child. He heard Maddy snarling, ‘Just kill him.’ And he ran again.
He sprinted round the corner and on to Prince Street, ignoring the warning signals of screaming pain from his lungs, his legs, his wounded back and his overworked heart. He kept pumping his arms and legs, desperately trying to squeeze out more speed as somewhere to the left he heard the deep, throaty rumble of powerful engines starting up. As he dashed on to the bridge he caught his first glimpse of a sleek dart of a boat, with a long, arrow-like bow and a low cabin roof sweeping back over the driver’s cockpit with the sensual curve of an Italian sports car. It was reversing out of a berth.
Now it was turning to face downstream, towards the bridge.
As Carver reached the middle of the bridge, the boat began moving towards him. It was no more than the length of a football field away and the gap was narrowing with every second, shrinking still faster as it picked up speed.
Carver fired off four more shots in quick succession, aiming at the figure he could just make out in the cockpit behind the raked-back windscreen, and then the gun clicked as the magazine emptied. Grantham hadn’t kept it fully loaded.
There was no time to worry about that now. Though its windscreen had shattered, the boat had not slowed down or deviated from its course. It was aiming straight for the single narrow span of clear water at the centre of the bridge, directly below where Carver was standing.
Carver couldn’t believe that Tyzack would make it. The bridge sat just a few feet above the water. It had to be lifted to let boats through. But Tyzack wasn’t slowing down. As the bow came almost within touching distance of where he stood, Carver turned and ran across the bridge.
He leaped up on to the sturdy cast-iron parapet and then jumped as the speedboat sped by in a blazing shower of sparks, ignited as it scraped along the underside of the bridge.
The cockpit had a short roof, immediately above the driver and co-driver’s seats, but was then open all the way back to the stern where there was a shallow transom above the frothing white water churned up by twin stainless steel propellers. Carver landed hard on the transom, half in and half out of the boat, driving all the air from his lungs. His head was hanging over the steps that led down on to the aft deck and the lower half of him dangled terrifyingly close to the propellers. If his legs touched those flashing blades they would be pulped into a flesh smoothie, like a banana in a food processor.
Damon Tyzack’s head peered round from the high, carbon-fibre driver’s seat. He coughed, put his hand up to his mouth, flashed his most disarming smile and shouted over the roar of the engines, ‘Welcome aboard.’
92
The Type 45 destroyer is an air-defence specialist. It does not carry any anti-ship missile systems. But it has a little friend that does, the Lynx HMA8 helicopter that it carries in a hangar amidships, which is armed with four Sea Skua guided missiles. The radar on HMS Daring had spotted the two hand grenades on their brief journey between Tyzack’s drone and the presidential stage. The information had been relayed to Manners and from him to Tord Bahr, confirming Carver’s story and making Damon Tyzack the prime suspect. The moment Tyzack got into his boat, HMS Daring’s Lynx was ordered to intercept him. The only question now concerned the rules of engagement. Would the Lynx be allowed to use deadly force? That was a decision that would have to go right to the very top.
93
Tyzack ordered Carver forward over a deck littered with broken glass. His right hand was grasping the steering wheel. His left was covering Carver with a gun that still had ammunition in its magazine.
‘Take the co-driver’s seat,’ Tyzack said, his gun gesturing towards the empty seat to his left. ‘Do up the safety harness. Now place your hands between your legs and the seat. Don’t move, or I’ll be obliged to shoot.’
As they passed the Bristol docks and the Floating Harbour, Tyzack leaned forward and used the palm-heel of his gun hand to push the twin throttles, opening up the engines and making the boat leap forward with a new surge of speed, a blast of cool air racing in through the broken windscreen. For a second, more of Tyzack’s upper body was visible, exposing the ragged scarlet hole in his upper chest, just beneath his right collar-bone.
Tyzack caught Carver’s eye. ‘You got lucky,’ he said and coughed again, spattering the pristine white leather around the steering wheel with a fine spray of blood.
‘For God’s sake,’ said Carver, ‘give up. You can’t get away. There’s a bloody great destroyer sitting out in the Bristol Channel and a squadron of Typhoon jets up top. One way or another, they’re going to blow you out of the water.’
‘Won’t be the Typhoons,’ Tyzack said. ‘Technical problem. They can only hit ground targets if they’re given warning and prepped before take-off. They were up there to protect Air Force One. They won’t be able to get me.’
‘The destroyer then…’
‘Yes, that could. Probably will, in fact.’
‘So stop. Get that lung fixed. You’ll live.’
Tyzack’s smile was almost melancholy now, in its recognition of his inevitable fate. ‘No, I won’t. Doesn’t matter where they put me. Visar will get me. I’m a dead man in jail.’
Carver could not hide his surprise. ‘Visar? Christ…’
It took Tyzack a couple of seconds to make the connection. ‘The hit on his brother – that was you?’ He broke into a hacking, blood-spraying laugh. ‘Oh, that’s priceless, that really is!’
‘For God’s sake, man,’ Carver implored him. ‘Hasn’t this gone far enough?’
‘No,’ said Tyzack, with
definitive certainty. ‘It hasn’t. You’re right, I’m going to die very soon. And the one thing that makes that prospect even remotely bearable is the sure and certain fact that you’re going to die with me.’
The Prime Minister had been complicit in decisions that sent his country to war. He had happily signed off on defence cuts whose effects on equipment procurement condemned scores of inadequately protected servicemen and – women to needless, avoidable deaths. But when it came to giving the order for a specific use of military force, he suddenly lost his appetite for decision-making.
On the one hand, he did not want a man who had tried to kill Lincoln Roberts to escape the grasp of justice. On the other, he led a party that was viscerally opposed to capital punishment and had little natural sympathy for US presidents, no matter how charismatic. Besides which, he was the leader of a European Union state, and the EU forbids capital punishment. Indeed, many of its nations virtually forbid their armed forces to fight.
It took a pollster to put the PM out of his misery. The British people, he suggested, would not take kindly to a leader who let a would-be assassin get away with it. On the other hand, the vast majority of the population would have no trouble at all with the idea that such a villain had been blown to shreds by the Royal Navy. This was still, after all, a country whose biggest-selling daily newspaper, at the very height of its circulation, had greeted the sinking of an Argentine battleship with the single word: ‘GOTCHA!’
‘Gotcha it is, then,’ said the Prime Minister morosely. ‘But wait till the target reaches open water. I don’t want a pleasure-boat full of pensioners or a family taking a river cruise getting caught by the blast. That would not be good for our ratings.’
‘No, not very,’ the pollster agreed.
