Street Soldier

by Andy McNab

  Sean stared into the distance. That had to be it. It just had to be. Trafalgar sodding Square . . .

  Unless Trafalgar Square was already one of the locations . . .

  But Adams had said that it looked like everyone was heading for the City. The financial district – the Bank of England, Lloyds, rich multinationals. It meant that at some point they had all turned northwards to cross the river, probably at Tower Bridge or London Bridge.

  Trafalgar Square was west of all that, and if Sean was heading to Trafalgar Square from Peckham then that was the direction he would head. He would cross the Thames at Westminster Bridge, or Waterloo.

  So Trafalgar Square had not been the destination of any of the others. It had to be Rich’s target.

  Sean looked at his phone again. How was he going to report this? He thought of just dialling 999 – but would anyone take him seriously? They certainly wouldn’t put him through to the spooks . . .

  No – he had to get to Trafalgar Square himself. He stuffed the phone in his pocket and began to run from car to car, checking doors, looking for one that still had keys in.

  But . . .

  He squinted back up the road. None of these cars would be going anywhere. Shit! He needed something that could get through this jam. A bike . . .

  Malcolm had been wearing bike leathers.

  Sean ran back to the wreckage of the van, which was still blazing away. He hadn’t noticed the bike, but he remembered hearing it . . .

  And there it was, lying on its side two cars away from the van. The cars had taken the force of the blast and the bike was still intact – a Yamaha Fazer FZ1, smooth black metal lines wrapped around a 998cc engine. It was the one he had seen outside the warehouse. He laughed, remembering the Kawasaki Ninja that had got him into all this trouble in the first place, the night he was caught by the police. Perhaps this one would actually get him out of trouble.

  He picked up the bike and found the key still in the ignition. He turned it as he swung himself into the saddle and the engine shuddered into life.

  It throbbed impatiently as Sean weaved his way between abandoned vehicles, until at last he was clear and the road ahead was empty. He leaned forward, throttled up, and the bike surged forward. Now all he had to do was remember the way.

  He pulled left onto the A2, leaning over so that his knee almost brushed the ground. The bike raged and roared beneath him as he hurled it westwards, the opposite way to the route he had been taking to the Blackwall Tunnel. Traffic crawled along. He hurled himself between gaps and through spaces that looked like they wouldn’t have taken a moped. Somehow the cars managed to get out of the way.

  Did they still have the drone on him? He hoped so. They might guess where he was going and get there first. Or maybe give orders to any cops to keep out of his way.

  Trafalgar Square. Trafalgar Square. If he thought it hard enough, would they work it out?

  Through Elephant and Castle, running the red lights, hurtling round the roundabout, cutting off any cars that even thought about having right of way. By now the cops must have been alerted – maniac on a Yamaha, heading west. But what were they going to do? They would never catch him in a car. And if any bike cops gave chase – well, the more the merrier. He would lead them to Rich.

  He pointed the bike up towards Lambeth, and almost hit the brakes as he rode slap bang into roadworks blocking the way. With a spin of the rear wheel out to his right, Sean heaved the bike out of the road and onto the pavement. He forced himself to slow down just enough to allow pedestrians to throw themselves out of the way. Most of them had the sense to do just that. Some tried to knock him off, but by the time they reached for him he was already gone.

  Past the back end of Waterloo and onto Westminster Bridge, the Houses of Parliament gleaming in the early daylight on the far bank. The Big Ben clock said it was just coming up to 7:30. He took the interchange into Whitehall completely the wrong way, cutting straight across the right turn rather than politely going all the way round Parliament Square.

  And there was Trafalgar Square – Nelson’s Column marking the spot at the far end of Whitehall. Sean blazed up the final stretch, past grand, austere government buildings, and the rest of the square slowly came into view. There was no sign of emergency vehicles, which was good and bad. Good, because if the fifth bomb was here, it hadn’t gone off yet. Bad because his unseen watchers hadn’t guessed where he was heading. He was on his own.

  He went across the junction at the end, taking the direct route almost to the base of Nelson’s Column. With a dramatic skid that wasn’t exactly planned, he pulled the bike up and was off it in a single movement, scanning the area.

  It was 7:30 in the morning – the only people around were the ones walking to work. Nothing like as packed as it had been when he was here with Rich. Of course, no one was getting involved. Sean got some sideways looks, but that was all.

  But they were still there. If a bomb like the one in the van went off right now, it would take forty, fifty people with it – the blast and the shrapnel cutting right across the open space like a giant blade.

  If it was here. Sean couldn’t see any stationary vans. He leaped onto the base of Nelson’s Column, clambering up to the topmost ledge, eyes scanning all around for any sign. Where . . . ?

  A ringing sound caught Sean’s attention, though at first he didn’t register what it was. Then he recognized the tune. It was his phone. He put it to his ear. Had Adams tracked him down? he wondered. He pulled it out.

  ‘Yup?’

  ‘Hello, Sean.’

  It was the same synthesized voice that had given the instructions on the CDs.

  ‘Don’t do it!’ Sean yelled. ‘These are innocent people!’

  There was a pause. Wherever he was, Rich must be inputting the words in real time.

  ‘There is no such thing as innocent people,’ the voice said flatly. Another pause. ‘You know about the fifth bomb and you are alive. Therefore you have betrayed me.’

  ‘It’s over,’ Sean said. It was all he could think of. ‘Give up.’

  ‘The bomb was set for later in the day when the square is busier.’ Pause. ‘Perhaps I should set it off now. What do you think?’

  Sean looked around frantically. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘They do not teach observation in the army, then.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘How many homeless people have you ever seen with an iPad?’

  What?

  Sean scanned the square again – and then he had it. Sitting at the bottom of the grand flight of stone steps leading up to the National Gallery. An old tramp, baggy hat pulled down over his face; long, shapeless coat; nothing that could be picked up off CCTV tapes. He could probably ditch the outfit in seconds and become the well-dressed white guy no one paid any attention to.

  And he had one hand tucked inside his coat. The other held the coat slightly open, just enough for him to peer in and see what he was doing. The man glanced up at Sean from under the brim of his hat, and pulled the coat open a fraction of an inch. Sean just had a moment to catch the light of a screen before it disappeared again.

  The robot voice continued. ‘I’m going to turn and walk away. Once I’m safely sheltered I will detonate the bomb. You can come and get me. You can run for shelter. Or you can stay and find the bomb. Your choice.’

  Without looking back, the tramp stood up and shuffled off.

  He was two hundred metres away. Sean would never catch him in time. And at this range he would never get him with the Glock. He swore loudly, and scanned the area again in desperation, looking for a clue, any clue.

  And then he realized that it was literally right in front of him: the fake vintage van coffee stand, surrounded by metal chairs. It had been moved to the right, in front of the Column. The perfect place to cause as much damage as possible.

  Sean ran over and tugged at the door. It was locked. He went round to the front. The shutter was down, the whole thing sealed off – and it was easily bi
g enough to carry the same kind of load as he’d had in the Transit.

  This had to be it.

  ‘There’s a bomb!’ Sean shouted. He waved his hands frantically. ‘A bomb! Get away!’

  All he got was some odd looks. Fuck, what did it take? Last time he’d had to shoot a guy . . .

  Inspiration struck. Sean pulled out the Glock, cocked it, waved it above his head. ‘Run! Now! There’s a bomb!’

  A few bystanders shuffled into something a little more urgent. But still no one was really shifting. He was going to have to fire the thing. That was what had got them going before.

  Fire it where? He couldn’t loose off rounds in a crowded city and not hit someone – not even into the air. They would come down somewhere. The only thing he could think of that would absorb the shots was the coffee stand, and he wasn’t going to fire at something that might explode.

  And then he had it. He ran over to one of the fountains, leaped up onto the balustrade, and fired two shots into the water. ‘Bomb! Bomb!’

  He fired again.

  And now people were moving. They began to scatter, slowly at first, then faster and faster, screaming as the panic spread. Sean fired again. Then he ran over to the other fountain, and repeated the performance. Everyone fled, shrieking, as he approached. The square was finally clearing.

  Would that stop Rich blowing it?

  He couldn’t risk it. Rich was only giving him this chance to toy with him – give him the impossible choice of trying to save people, or saving his own skin. He would want to make whatever grand, final gesture he could – his way of saying, Fuck you all. Meanwhile Sean was now a target for any Met officer with a gun of his own. This close to Whitehall and Downing Street, there would be plenty of them around.

  Well, I’m a soldier. We lay down our lives if we have to.

  He fancied he could already feel the laser sights dancing on his chest. On his back. Anywhere. But he fired until the gun was empty. The area was clear; there was nothing more that he could do.

  How long had that all taken? Thirty seconds? A minute? He had to be out of time. His shoulders sagged as he looked around. The edges of the square seemed to recede as the empty space grew bigger. He had to get across it, out of the bomb’s range. Oh, fucking hell, couldn’t he just lie down and rest . . . ?

  He sighed, and started to run. Met marksman or bomb blast, one of them would probably get him, but he was fucked if he was just going to lie down and take it.

  The world lit up . . .

  Chapter 32

  The third time Sean woke up, he could speak and think.

  The first time: bright lights, whiteness blinding him. A human shape. A nurse, telling him to rest, gently pushing him back as he struggled to get up; he was trying to explain that he didn’t need a fucking rest, he needed to fucking get out there and fucking stop the fucking-fuck-Rich-Malcolm-bike-bomb-coffee-ow-don’t-stick-a-needle-in-my-arm-you-cow . . .

  The second time, the white lights began to fade, going down to grey, other colours edging in, forming shapes. A room with white walls, furniture that had seen better days, a television high up. A nurse at the end of his bed, reading his notes. It had to be the infirmary at Burnleigh. Funny, he didn’t remember having an accident. Then he frowned. Burnleigh – hadn’t there been other stuff in his life since then? Something had happened, but he couldn’t remember so it probably wasn’t important. The nurse looked fit. He would ask her the next time he woke up . . .

  The third time, he recognized the person dozing in the chair next to his bed.

  ‘Mum . . .’ he croaked. His throat was dry as dust.

  She was awake in a moment. ‘Sweetheart! Darling! Here . . .’ She held his head up so he could take a long sip of water out of a straw in a bottle. Then she pinched his cheek. ‘And, happy birthday! Eighteen today! My little boy.’ Her face fell. ‘Oh, love, I was so worried—’

  Eighteen? Where was he? How long had he been out for?

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘There was an explosion in Trafalgar Square,’ she said. ‘What were you doing in Trafalgar Square? If you were in town, you could have come and seen me.’

  ‘Explosion?’

  ‘Oh . . . yes . . . Doctor says you got hit by a . . . flying metal chair? Concussion and bruises, nothing too serious, they say. Nothing too serious, my arse! If it knocks my little boy out, then that’s what I call serious. I’ll go and let the nurse know you’re awake. Oh, and here’s your friend. I’ll let you two have a chat.’ She leaned forward and whispered into his ear. ‘Bit of all right, isn’t he?’

  Sean frowned, still trying to remember. Trafalgar Square . . . something really important . . .

  And then, like it had just been uploaded into his memory, it all came back. Not just Trafalgar Square, but what he had been doing there.

  ‘Mum!’ Sean said suddenly. He clutched feebly at her arm and fought back the panic. ‘Don’t go . . .’ He couldn’t see round her to make out who this friend was. It was Rich, had to be, come to pay him back. He would only need a few seconds, and Sean would be completely helpless . . .

  But his mum had moved away, out of the room, and he recognized the visitor.

  ‘Sergeant?’ he said in surprise.

  They gazed at each other. Adams had a large envelope and a newspaper under his arm.

  ‘Well, you remember me, at least,’ he said finally. ‘Do you remember this?’

  He unfolded the newspaper. It was the Evening Standard, and the front page read: MASSIVE EXPLOSION IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

  ‘I kind of missed the moment it went bang,’ Sean said weakly. And he was eighteen today – which meant he had been out for three days. ‘Why aren’t I dead?’

  Adams flicked the paper open and scanned through it. ‘Blah, blah, blah . . . unnamed member of the Special Forces – and do not let that go to your head, laddie, because I promise you it no longer applies – who was believed to have been in the blast shadow of Nelson’s Column, was taken to . . .’ He folded the paper with a flat smile. ‘So, shockwave couldn’t get you, but never underestimate the range of a flying metal chair.’

  ‘Ha. Funny.’ Sean frowned. Even that made his head hurt, but he knew there were gaps in his understanding and he wanted them plugged. ‘What happened to the other bombs?’

  ‘We got all three vans, all defused. Two of the drivers surrendered without a fight, including Corporal Heaton. One, a red-headed man’ – Adams paused – ‘resisted, with an army-issue Glock. The snipers had to take him out.’

  Sean closed his eyes. RIP Copper. ‘And what about Rich?’

  Adams paused, looking hesitant for the first time since Sean had known him.

  He closed his eyes and groaned. ‘Oh. Fuck. He got away?’

  ‘Remember, my involvement with MI5 stopped the moment you were no longer useful to them, which means that so did my access to information. But as I understand it—’

  ‘He got away,’ Sean said again.

  ‘Yes. On the other hand, the spooks got a lot of useful information on him. He won’t be picking up the old cosy life in Guildford again.’

  ‘Any more good news?’

  ‘Actually, yes.’ Adams brandished the envelope. ‘I came to wish you a happy birthday.’

  ‘Aw, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘That’s all right. I almost didn’t.’ Adams passed the envelope over. Inside was a card, and a colourful badge: 18 LEGAL FOR ANYTHING. There was a hole on the front with the caption: Guess who this card’s for? Put your finger here to find out.

  He followed the instructions and opened the card. It was signed by all the lads, and his finger stuck out from the groin of a cartoon man. The caption read: It’s to a REAL dick. He waggled his finger up and down, and tried to smile.

  ‘Jeez. Guess I’m all grown up now.’ He leaned over to put the card on his locker.

  ‘Officially adult,’ Adams agreed. ‘Which means we can officially court-martial you.’

  Sean looked at him. Then he looked
around and took in the complete absence of handcuffs, Redcaps or any other kind of security. ‘But you won’t,’ he whispered. Suddenly he had to turn his head away as tears filled his eyes. Shit. He had always known this would come, but – shit. ‘You’re just going to throw me out quietly, aren’t you?’

  And why shouldn’t they? he thought bitterly. If he remembered Trafalgar Square, he also remembered how he had got involved in all this in the first place. Basically blackmailed into it by MI5, with the threat of a long jail sentence which he totally deserved if he didn’t comply. And he had failed to stop two bombs.

  But even before that – everything the army had done for him he had just thrown back in its face. Even after he monumentally screwed up, even after he was busted by MI5, he remembered Franklin and Adams standing by him in that interview room. Not leaving him. Backing him up.

  He had briefly been part of a family that would support him unconditionally for the rest of his life – and he’d chucked it away because for some insane reason he had preferred the old lifestyle. Contrast that with the Guyz, whose continued friendship could only be bought with stolen money.

  ‘Now, why would we do that? What’s the poor civvy world ever done to deserve having you unleashed on it?’

  Sean stared at him, eyes wide.

  ‘Your actions,’ said the sergeant, ‘saved lives. Even though two bombs exploded, no deaths have been reported. The way you discharged your weapon safely showed an exemplary regard for public safety and no thought for your own. You know there are armed cops everywhere in the West End? You could have been shot yourself at any moment. In short, there’s too much good soldier in you to waste. And it helps that Mr Franklin has been putting his own career on the line, saying that if you go, he goes. And he is far too good an officer to chuck away. Here . . .’ He leaned down and pinned the 18 badge onto Sean’s hospital gown. ‘And that’s the only medal you’re getting, because there isn’t one for being a lucky bastard, who doesn’t have the sense to call up the authorities before going all vigilante on his own.’