Javelin - the gripping new thriller from the former commander of Special Branch (John Kerr Book 3)

by Roger Pearce

  The men were brothers, eighteen and twenty-one, and their arrival in London on the last Saturday in September had drawn them closer. This morning’s attacks would be the first in the campaign and they listened carefully to the travel updates on LBC. Both were nervous, for their speciality was dealing drugs in Belfast, not planting bombs in London. The Englishman who gave out the orders had been reassuring, right from the moment he recruited them at his grimy tyre and exhaust workshop near Willesden, saying their inexperience did not count because they were just the delivery boys. ‘Like Ocado, or knocking out a kilo of charlie. Place the commodity and walk away,’ he had told them the night before, lifting two lethal improvised devices from his wheelie bag onto the rocky pine table, followed by a pair of loaded Glock pistols. ‘We’ve done the difficult bit for you.’

  The bombs were contained in plastic school lunch boxes, one lime green, the other polka dot blue, with nails packed into the moulded fruit compartments. A timer power unit switch protruded through a slot cut into the side of each box, primed to detonate the explosives thirty minutes after activation.

  The older brother was called Fin, though this was not his real name. Beside each bomb he had laid two double sheets from Friday’s edition of the Metro, taped together lengthwise. Wearing latex gloves, Fin carefully folded the newspaper around the polka dot bomb, leaving the switch accessible, and slipped it into a clear plastic bag with the Metro logo clearly visible. Then he stood back, waiting for his younger brother to do the same. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘it’s not going to bite you.’

  For the journey into central London they slid each bomb into a supermarket Bag for Life, then zipped into their lightweight hooded waterproofs. The younger brother’s work name was Kenny. These days he was always in such pain from an injury to his right leg that Fin would often give him an extra turn on the bed. Seeing the boy’s face crumple now as he adjusted the support strapping around his knee, Fin laid a line of cocaine on the table with a twenty pound note.

  The boy snorted, sniffed and downed a glass of water. He took his pistol and concealed it against the small of his back, just like Fin: the gun did not trouble him, for they had both carried firearms since their mid-teens. Gingerly, he picked up his Bag for Life and stood tall. ‘Let’s do it.’

  They raised their hoods against the rain as they climbed the four cracked steps to the street, sending a rat scurrying beneath the dwarf wall. Finsbury Park tube was a ten minute walk to the left, but their orders were to take a longer route in the other direction, passing St Peter’s church at the opposite end of the street from the mosque before swinging right to follow a quiet cinder path bordering the main line. Kenny always walked with a limp these days, stone cold sober or high as a kite, so Fin took the direct route, towards the mosque, past the surrounding flats which had been home to jihadis fighting a quite different enemy.

  •••

  Monday, 10 October, 11.34, Caledonian Road

  Detective Sergeant Alan Fargo boarded the 73 bus and ushered his elderly mother and sister into the last priority seat as they crawled away from Kings Cross. The bus stop was close to the former police flat they shared off Caledonian Road, a stone’s throw from Regent’s Canal. Pauline, who had Downs, was thirty-four today, so Elsie was taking her to Brighton for a short break before winter set in. Because it was a special day, Elsie wore the brooch Fargo’s dad had given her on their Ruby anniversary, a dolphin of cubic zirconia. Victoria station was only five stops away but Elsie had spent her entire life in Falmouth until being widowed and resolutely refused to travel underground, even if it quadrupled the journey time. She pretended this was to protect Pauline, though whenever Fargo sneaked his sister into the Yard to enjoy the view from the eighteenth floor she seemed to love the crowds on the tube ride home. It was standing room only for Fargo, and Elsie’s umbrella, unfurled after the walk to the bus stop, flopped damply against his leg as he beamed down at them and took another call from the office. Like John Kerr, his boss, Alan Fargo was a career Special Branch officer who ran the heavily restricted Terrorism Research Unit, known simply as Room 1830. Monday morning was always busy with admin and operational catch-ups from the weekend, and his phone vibrated again as they drew into Victoria bus terminus, forty minutes after leaving Kings Cross. It was a bad day to be late but he was still smiling as he offloaded their wheelie cases, sprung the handles and checked the online tickets. He would see them to the mainline platform in good time for the 12.51 and collect his altered trousers on the way back to the office. Since falling in love, joining a gym and ditching fast food, he had lost over forty pounds; none of his clothes fitted, and Alan Fargo had never been happier.

  Pauline insisted on pulling her own case, so Fargo reminded her to use the pedestrian crossing at the front of the terminus lanes while he assisted Elsie. Instead, he saw her take the shortest route and collide with a bedraggled young man coming from the station. The jerk must have missed her with his face concealed beneath his hood, but made no attempt to apologise. Fargo had always been fiercely protective when anything happened to his younger sister, but his anger evaporated in a second. ‘Poor boy,’ he heard Pauline say as she watched him limp towards their bus.

  •••

  Monday, 10 October, 12.23, Strutton Ground

  ‘Honestly, it was a lovely afternoon and we had fun.’ Half a mile away John Kerr was enjoying family time, too. In their first catch-up for nearly a month he sat with Gabi, his daughter, at the window table of Cantina Carla, on the corner of Victoria Street and Strutton Ground market, opposite New Scotland Yard. Gabi was a violinist with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, just back from a European tour, and had dropped by for brunch on her way to a rehearsal at the Barbican. Kerr had waited outside, spotting her across the street in her skinny jeans, denim jacket and ankle boots like Robyn’s. He had grabbed her battered violin case, hugged her tight and ducked every question about the attack in Hammersmith.

  Gabi leaned in close. ‘Dad, why do you always have to be so evasive?’

  ‘Let’s see what the real detectives come up with,’ said Kerr, instinctively checking his BlackBerry.

  ‘Why aren’t you on Apple, Dad? So how did you two leave things?’

  ‘What did Mum say?’

  ‘To ask you.’

  ‘Well, it was great.’ Kerr sipped his coffee and smiled. ‘We’re going to do it again very soon.’

  ‘So Mum was friendly, yes? I mean, you’re always saying she’s mad at you.’ Gabi glanced at Kerr’s colazione with extra mushrooms and tomatoes. ‘Are you really going to eat all that?’

  ‘We got on really well. You know, conversed,’ said Kerr, leaning in. ‘Like you tell us to.’

  ‘About me, I suppose?’

  Kerr speared a mushroom. ‘Don’t think you came up.’

  Gabi’s foot knocked against the violin case. ‘What then?’

  ‘Human rights. You know what Mum’s like.’

  ‘And you both got pissed, I suppose?’ Kerr had persuaded Gabi to go for eggs Florentine, but she pushed the toasted muffin to the side of the plate. ‘As per usual?’

  ‘We talked, shared a bottle of wine.’

  ‘On the boat. Yes, she told me. And?’

  Kerr looked awkward. Through the window he spotted Gemma Riley, his head of comms, leaving the takeaway sandwich bar in Strutton Ground. Chic in charcoal grey trousers, flat patent shoes and a white cotton blouse, she sprung a giant ‘London 2012’ umbrella, paused to buy fruit from the market stall and hurried back to the Yard.

  ‘Dad, I’m talking about when Mum’s bag got nicked.’

  Kerr glanced across the road again. ‘Like I said…’

  ‘So you are going to meet up again, soon?’

  ‘Probably.’ Kerr was eyeing the muffin. ‘Yes, definitely.’

  ‘How can you be this laid back,’ said Gabi, shaking her head, ‘when Mum’s so totally freaked out?’

  ‘She doesn’t need to be.’

  ‘No? After what you and…whoever
did to her car? She says Hertz have probably banned her for life.’

  ‘Gabi, this was someone trying to get me.’

  ‘Try telling Mum that.’

  ‘I already did.’

  ‘So call her again today. After this. Say I told you to.’ Gabi stared at Kerr’s damaged face and sighed. ‘Jesus, why do you two always make me feel like I’m the parent?’

  Kerr smiled. Gabi shared a flat near the Royal Albert Hall with two other musicians but often stayed over at Kerr’s apartment in Islington or visited Robyn in Rome. These days she was always trying to bring them together. The coffee machine gurgled and hissed behind the counter and he saw Carla looking at him. She gave a thumbs up. ‘Everything good?’

  ‘Brilliant.’ They had been out a couple of times after work and Carla sometimes brought him crêpes on the house. Kerr laid his cutlery neatly on the plate. ‘Gabi, don’t worry about us. Everything’s hunky-dory. How was Russia?’

  ‘No, Dad.’ Kerr heard Gabi’s shoe knock against the case again as she leaned across the table, her voice little more than a whisper. ‘Tell me who bloody well tried to kill you.’

  Chapter Two

  Monday, 10 October, 12.27, Victoria Bus Terminus

  On the tube the bombers had travelled the seven stations to Victoria in separate carriages, standing with the bags between their legs, Fin keeping an eye on his brother through the glass door. There was an escalator to the surface but the final stage to the mainline concourse was up two flights of regular steps, which slowed Kenny down. Fin walked ahead to their vantage point outside The Globe Tavern, in the far left corner of the terminal. He was already slouching against its black tiled wall like a regular drinker by the time his brother emerged between the taxi rank and The Pasty Shop, still sheltered from the steady rain by the station’s wrought iron and glass canopy. He watched Kenny make a beeline across the bus lanes, shifting the Bag for Life from one hand to the other as he bumped into a plump woman pulling a wheelie case.

  Fin had chosen a spot outside the range of the CCTV cameras. Safe in the lee of the pub, he tried to relax while he got his bearings. Stretching away from him were the four bus lanes, glistening in the rain and separated by glass shelters restricting visibility from the station concourse. At the opposite end of the terminus he located the German investment bank Rafal Eisner Capital, six storeys of minimalist steel and smoked glass. Its Reception was half the area of a tennis court and even from this distance he could easily make out the ‘RECap’ logo, an illuminated oval of gold and eggshell blue suspended above the receptionist’s head.

  All around him was constant traffic, with buses arriving every couple of minutes, most passengers hurrying to the tube and mainline stations. Fin waited for another bus to hiss past, then hopped into the road to get line of sight on the locations for the bombs. Confirm.

  He surveyed the ground for risks, signs of officialdom. Midway between Fin and the bank a couple of drivers were stretching their legs before the next departure. To his half-right, beside an open top sightseeing bus, a travel guide wearing a bowler hat stooped to assist a clutch of Japanese tourists. Beyond him, sheltered by the station canopy, stood a pair of shortish, hi-vis transport police, their trousers weighed down by the paraphernalia of the everyday cop. They loitered, chatted and chewed gum for a couple of minutes before disappearing into the station. No threat.

  Fin turned to his brother and studied him for a moment. In the darkness of the hood Kenny’s wide eyes were vivid blue, lit by the cocaine, but his face was jagged with fear. ‘You ready?’ Fin gripped his arm. ‘Know what to do?’

  ‘Is it gonna work? You trust him?’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Fin. He reached into his bag and activated the power switch, then waited for Kenny to do the same. ‘Time is a bit of the fucking essence here, kid,’ he whispered as his brother hesitated, then repeatedly pumped his arm, as if inflating his courage. The moment Kenny bent down to flick the switch Fin checked his watch: 12.33. Fin made a final scan of the station entrance as another bus swept into the terminus, then gave his brother a gentle shove. ‘Go.’ He watched Kenny step across to the third bus lane, removing the bomb from its bag as he closed on the first trash receptacle. It was a transparent polythene sack attached to an oval rim, a safe alternative to the metal bins once used by IRA terrorists to conceal their bombs. Fin could see that it was empty apart from a couple of crisp packets, empty cigarette packs and discarded copies of the Metro. A parked bus shielded the site from the station, its engine noise and exhaust fumes keeping passengers at bay. Fin heard his brother cough as he walked slowly past and placed his bomb on top of the rubbish, twisting it to expose the newspaper’s logo.

  Fin watched him leave the terminus, walking alongside a secondary entrance to the tube. As passengers emerged from the Underground into the rain umbrellas popped up all around, bright as fireworks, and Kenny was soon lost to view. Fin paused, scanning for new threats. The same two cops had reappeared, still talking, and he watched a traffic warden wave a lost Mercedes driver from the Buses Only sign at the far end of the terminus. A young woman hurried towards him, hair as red as the buses, with leggings and shoes to match. She shouted something into her mobile, spat a wad of chewing gum on top of Kenny’s bomb and passed Fin without a glance. The cops were interrupting each other now, airing some grievance, their minds a long way from here.

  Fin and Kenny would move unnoticed. No-one would see anything until much later, after the Yard had scrabbled around for every second of CCTV.

  In the distance, Fin watched a dark cloud disappear behind the Victoria Apollo Theatre as the rain intensified and people quickened their pace, heads lowered. When the cops retreated beneath the canopy he decided to take his chance. Face and head buried deep inside the hood he timed his move to coincide with a departing double decker, which covered him to the second garbage bag only a couple of bus lengths from the bank. It was full, so Fin acted the street scavenger as he bent down to rearrange the rubbish and leave his bomb at the bottom.

  Passing the bank with the Victoria Palace Theatre dead ahead, he turned left and hugged the inside of the pavement until he came full circle to the rear of the pub. He could see Kenny in the distance, heading south down Buckingham Palace Road. Across the street was Lower Grosvenor Gardens, a triangle of green protected by iron railings, with gravel paths, wooden benches, neat hedges and a statue of Marshal Foch on horseback, caught within three busy roads. Without waiting for the lights to change Fin dodged the traffic, took the nearest entrance and hurried through the gardens, as if taking a short cut.

  Fin’s diversion was the signal that the bombs had been delivered, and he spotted the Englishman in a blue Trapper hat and long black coat observing him from the doorway of Threads wine bar across the street, mobile at the ready. Resisting the urge to turn and watch him dial, Fin swung away after his kid brother, hurrying to find a pub with TV to watch the breaking news.

  Chapter Three

  Monday, 10 October, 12.38, SO15 Reserve, New Scotland Yard

  Midway through the early shift Gemma Riley was feeling peckish and had just taken a bite of her salmon baguette when the call came through. It was on 2715, the non-emergency number used for security trace requests or enquiries from other police units. Gemma was head of the SO15 communications room, known simply as Reserve, a square office on the sixteenth floor covering three windows and separated from the corridor by a see-through partition from floor to ceiling.

  From her workstation by the window overlooking St James’s Park, Gemma looked round at her assistant for the day, an obese health and safety loser from property services with trousers an inch too short who had introduced himself as ‘Slim’. With her regular number two on maternity leave, Gemma was having to mentor a stream of security vetted fill-ins with zero intelligence expertise. Slim had arrived fifteen minutes late, announced his gastric band operation ‘any day now’ and spent the morning on the other extension, 2716, while Gemma discreetly vaporised the air with eau de cologn
e to mask the smell of cigarettes. He was on it now, slurping milky coffee from a chipped Keep Calm and Carry On mug he had brought with him, so Gemma picked up.

  ‘Special Branch?’ A man’s tense voice, calling from the street. Traffic in the background, people talking nearby.

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Bomb in Victoria station. Thirty minutes.’ Gemma dropped the baguette into her drawer and reached forward, grabbing a pen. The accent was fake, a mixture of English and Irish. ‘What kind of bomb?’ Behind her, Slim was talking loudly about the imminent sale of New Scotland Yard, so she spun round and prodded his beefy shoulder. ‘Where?’

  She heard the swish of car through puddle, then a woman’s fading laughter. ‘I told you. Thirty minutes. The code is Topaz.’

  ‘No. I mean where in the station? I need the exact place. Please don’t hang up.’

  Click.

  A Special Branch civilian officer long before the birth of SO15, Gemma was a genius hoax detector. Threats to set ablaze, blow up or annihilate on behalf of Jesus or Satan were routine, especially after an actual terrorist attack, though the usual number was 999 or the Anti-Terrorist Hotline. Even Crimestoppers, for the seriously deluded. But the coldness of this man’s call sent a tremor down her spine. That, and the word ‘Topaz’.

  In a heartbeat she jabbed a single number, the link to the Yard’s central communications complex, immediately reaching one of the operators. ‘Good afternoon this is Gemma in SO15 comms. We just had a Livebait on one of our dedicated lines. Location is Victoria station, no other details.’ Gemma glanced at the clock. ‘Thirty minute warning at twelve thirty-nine.’ As Gemma spoke she was working the keyboard. ‘The word is Topaz. Just a sec.’ She paused, waiting for the code to flash up on her screen. ‘And it’s a negative with us. I’ll do some more work on it and get back to you.’