‘I wasn’t after your money,’ said Shepherd, getting unsteadily to his feet.
‘One thing at a time,’ Mickey said to his brother. ‘Let’s get the money sorted first.’
Yates and Black came back inside. ‘Looks kosher,’ said Black.
‘Right, change of plan. Pinky, can we move the cash to your office now?’
Patel pulled a large red handkerchief from his trouser pocket. ‘It’s not a problem, Mickey. My boys were going to collect it here but I can tell them to meet me at the office.’
‘I want the cash out of here now. We’ll put what we can into your Beamer. Get your motor in here. As soon as the cash is loaded, off you go.’
Patel hurried outside, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief.
‘Barry, you help Chopper and Davie.’
‘It won’t all fit in the Beamer,’ said Yates.
‘What’s left over you leave in the Jeep and take to Pinky’s place. Then you get the hell out of Dodge. We don’t know how secure we are here. It could all go tits up at any moment.’
‘Mickey, we’ve got to talk,’ said Shepherd.
‘We’ve got nothing to say to you, slag!’ shouted Mark.
‘Leave it, Mark,’ said Mickey. ‘We safeguard the cash, then find out what the hell’s going on.’
They heard Pinky start up the BMW. A few seconds later the car edged inside the industrial unit and parked next to the Land Rover. Pinky opened the boot and Yates, Black and Wilson piled in the cash.
Shepherd took a deep breath. ‘Listen to me, Mickey. This is just about the most important conversation you’re ever going to have in your whole life and you have to believe that everything I’m about to tell you is the truth.’
Mark stepped forward and raised the butt of his shotgun. Shepherd flinched and raised his arm to block the blow. Mark swung the gun down and tightened his finger on the trigger. ‘Shut the fuck up, slag!’
‘Just let me talk,’ said Shepherd.
Mark handed the gun to his brother. ‘I don’t need that to sort this slag out,’ he said.
‘Leave it, Mark. There’ll be time for that later,’ said Mickey, but Mark ignored him.
‘I’ll talk to you,’ Mark said to Shepherd. ‘I’ll talk you into the middle of next week.’ He threw a punch that Shepherd just managed to block, pushing Mark’s arm to the side with the flat of his hand. Mark’s knee came up and slammed into his gut. Shepherd staggered back, winded.
Mark pressed forward, punching with both fists. Shepherd threw up his hands, trying to ward off the blows, but Mark hit him twice in the chest. Shepherd lashed out with his foot but Mark hooked the leg with his left hand and twisted it so that Shepherd fell to the ground. Mark kicked him in the ribs and Shepherd rolled to the side, then struggled to his feet.
‘Mark, just listen to me, will you?’
Mark shuffled on the spot and kicked out with his right leg, twisting into a roundhouse kick at the last minute that caught Shepherd on the side of the head and sent him crashing to the ground again.
Yates, Wilson and Black finished loading the money into the BMW and slammed the boot. Patel beeped his horn and drove out of the building as the three men put the rest of the cash into the back of the Jeep.
Shepherd got to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand – his lip was bleeding. Mark bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, grinning triumphantly.
‘We’re done, Mickey,’ said Yates.
‘Off you go,’ said Mickey. ‘Drop the cash at Pinky’s. I’ll call you, let you know what’s happening.’
Yates gestured at Shepherd. ‘What about him?’
‘We’ll take care of him,’ said Mark.
Yates, Black and Wilson piled into the Jeep and drove off. Mickey cradled the shotgun as he faced Shepherd.
‘Mickey, we need to talk,’ said Shepherd.
Mark scowled, then moved towards Shepherd, throwing two punches to his face before kicking him in the chest. Shepherd was already moving backwards, which lessened the damage but the blows still hurt.
Shepherd glared at him and wiped his mouth again. Mark was grinning as he wove from side to side, faking punches and making snorting sounds. ‘All right, big man,’ said Shepherd. He straightened up, flexing his fingers.
Mark had his hands held high in front of his face, Muay Thai-style, and shuffled forward on the balls of his feet. Shepherd knew that Mark was the better kickboxer, no question of that, but they weren’t in the ring now and Shepherd was no longer constrained by the rules of the martial art.
‘Come on, big man,’ said Shepherd, calmly. ‘Give it your best shot.’
Mark moved forward, fists flailing. Shepherd kept his hands at chest level, fingers slightly curved, then his left arm went up to block a punch and he hit the inside of Mark’s arm hard. With his right hand he grabbed Mark’s wrist, then dropped down, pulling the arm with him. He slammed his left hand down on Mark’s elbow, locking the arm in place, and as Mark lost his balance, he crouched low, keeping the arm locked. Mark fell to the ground cursing and Shepherd released his grip. Mark rolled onto his back but Shepherd was quicker and dropped on top of him, trapping Mark’s arms with his legs. Shepherd’s right hand flashed up, his fingers curled into talons, and he raked them down towards Mark’s eyes. Mark saw the blow coming and screamed in panic, knowing he was defenceless and that the fingers were going to gouge into his eye sockets. Shepherd pulled the attack, freezing his hand just inches from Mark’s face. Mark had gone white, and Shepherd could feel him trembling. ‘Are you happy now?’ he snarled.
Mark was gasping for breath as he stared up at Shepherd.
‘I could have blinded you, Mark. Or just as easily killed you.’
‘But you didn’t,’ said Mickey, pressing the barrel of his shotgun against the side of Shepherd’s head.
Shepherd reacted instinctively, his right arm shot up, knocking the shotgun away. Then he jumped to his feet and grabbed for Mickey’s throat with his left hand. He twisted the shotgun from Mickey’s grasp and kicked him in the stomach, sending him hurtling back against the bonnet of the Land Rover. Then he stepped to the side so that he could cover both brothers with the shotgun. ‘Will you two just listen to me?’ he said. ‘I need the Land Rover. That’s all.’
‘What are you playing at, Ricky?’ said Mickey, rubbing his throat. Mark got to his feet, still shaken by Shepherd’s attack.
‘A group of terrorists is about to shoot down a plane at Heathrow. At the moment I’m probably the only person who can stop them,’ He gestured at Mark with the shotgun. ‘Now give me the keys.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Mickey.
‘We don’t have time for this,’ said Shepherd. ‘Just give me the bloody keys and I’m out of here.’
‘Why aren’t the cops after these terrorists?’ asked Mickey.
‘There isn’t time,’ said Shepherd. ‘And the cops aren’t geared up for dealing with terrorists with surface-to-air missiles.’
‘This is connected with Kleintank, isn’t it?’ said Mickey. ‘The Dutchman and his bloody missiles.’
‘I don’t have time to explain,’ said Shepherd. ‘People are going to die if I don’t do something. A lot of people.’
‘Give me the keys, Mark,’ said Mickey.
‘You don’t believe this shit, do you?’ said Mark.
‘Just give me the keys.’
Mark fished them from his pocket and tossed them to his brother. Mickey caught them one-handed.
‘Mickey, we don’t have time for this.’
‘What are you going do, mate? Shoot me? We’ve already established that ain’t gonna happen.’
‘You’ve got your money, your lads are away. All I want is the bloody vehicle.’
‘And with that you’re gonna stop the terrorists?’
‘I’m going to try.’
‘And you’re not bullshitting? They’re planning to shoot down a plane?’
‘God’s honest truth, Mickey.’
<
br /> Mickey nodded slowly. ‘I believe you,’ he said. He looked at his brother. ‘I’m going with him. You check that the guys are okay, make sure Pinky gets the cash sorted.’ He headed for the Land Rover.
‘You’re bloody mad,’ Mark shouted after him.
‘Maybe,’ said Mickey. ‘But he could have killed you then, with his bare hands. I saw it in his eyes. But he didn’t. He’s one of the good guys, Mark, and if there are bastards about to shoot down a plane, I’m up for stopping them.’
‘Mickey, you don’t have to,’ said Shepherd.
‘Get in the bloody car before I change my mind,’ said Mickey. He climbed into the Land Rover and slammed the door. Mark shook his head, bewildered, as he watched Shepherd walk to the vehicle and climb into the front passenger seat where he cradled the shotgun on his lap.
Mickey switched on the engine. ‘Where to?’ he asked Shepherd.
‘Just head for the airport,’ said Shepherd. ‘And put your foot down.’
Bradshaw looked through the binoculars at the third plane on the approach to the runway. His heart raced as he saw the bulbous nose and four massive engines of a Boeing 747 with the red, white and blue British Airways livery on the tail. ‘Potential target sighted,’ he said into his mobile. ‘Just over five minutes away. Get ready.’
‘Affirmative,’ said Chaudhry, at the other end of the line.
‘It’s a jumbo jet,’ said Bradshaw. ‘Just what we need.’ He put down the phone and picked up the video camera that had been lying on the front passenger seat. He switched it on and focused on the removals van, then pressed pause and put the camera back on the seat. The video of the downing of the British Airways jet would become one of the most-watched terrorist incidents of all time, he would make sure of that.
The Land Rover hurtled down the outside lane of the M4. The vehicle was built for crossing rough terrain, not for speeding along at ninety miles an hour, and Mickey had to keep a tight grip on the steering-wheel. A white Saab was blocking his way and Mickey pounded on the horn until it moved over.
Shepherd called the Major. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said.
‘The helicopter’s not here yet,’ said the Major. ‘Soon as it leaves, I’ll tell you.’
‘Where do I go?’ asked Shepherd.
‘Near as the GCHQ guy can tell, it’s Boston Manor, near to Boston Manor Park. You’ll have to take junction two off the M4. They’re somewhere near the junction between Boston Manor Road and the Great Western Road.’
Shepherd scrolled through the GPS unit on the dashboard with his left hand.
‘And, Spider, he’s tapped into the phone. One of the guys is calling in the planes as he sees them. He’s got a British Airways 747 in his sights.’
‘I’ll call you back, boss,’ said Shepherd, ending the call. He patted Mickey’s shoulder. ‘We’ve got to go faster,’ he said.
Bradshaw lost sight of the commuter plane as it descended below the terminal buildings. The jumbo jet was now second in line for landing. ‘Target is four minutes from you,’ he said into the phone. He heard Chaudhry repeat the time, his voice slightly muffled by the chewing-gum in his mouth. Bradshaw felt light-headed and fought to keep his breathing steady. His adrenal glands were in overdrive and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Four more minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds. No time at all. But for the people in the plane coming in to land, it was all the time they had left to live.
Shepherd’s mobile rang. ‘The helicopter’s just left with a counter-terrorist troop on board,’ the Major said. ‘At full speed they’re ten minutes away. Spider, they might be too late. Where are you?’
‘Coming up to junction two now,’ said Shepherd. ‘I don’t know how long it’s going to take to drive through Brentford.’
‘The spotter just called four minutes, Spider. That’s all the time you have.’
‘Roger that,’ said Shepherd, and cut the connection.
Kundi kept the launch tube pointing at the sky. The Stinger was heavy but he barely felt the weight on his shoulder. He swallowed and blinked. In the sky overhead he saw a bird of prey, a kestrel, hovering. The bird flapped its wings, looking downward, waiting to kill. Kundi felt he was like the kestrel, poised to attack. But unlike the bird he wasn’t killing by instinct or for food. He was killing for Allah, and there was no nobler cause.
He heard the phone buzz in Chaudhry’s ear.
‘Target sighted, two minutes,’ said Chaudhry. He turned to Kundi. ‘Are you okay, brother?’
Kundi didn’t reply. His whole being was focused on the patch of clear blue sky directly above his head.
‘They’re going to shoot down a 747 in less than four minutes,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can we get there by then?’
‘Not if we leave the motorway,’ said Mickey. ‘We’ll slow to a crawl once we’re driving through Brentford.’
Shepherd leaned forward to get a closer look at the GPS. ‘We’re coming up to junction two now,’ said Mickey. ‘What do you want to do?’
‘Stay on the motorway,’ said Shepherd. ‘Can we go any faster?’
‘My foot’s on the floor, mate,’ said Mickey.
The jumbo jet was so close now that Bradshaw felt as if he could reach out and touch it. Its flaps were down and its nose had gone up as it prepared for its final approach. He put the mobile phone to his mouth. ‘Ninety seconds,’ he said.
The motorway curved to the right. Shepherd looked to the left, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. Were they on a hill? Were they in a field? Or had they sought cover in a wood or a building? He opened the window and stuck his head out. The wind made his eyes water as he twisted his head to squint up at the sky. Behind them there was a 747 in the livery of British Airways, the red, white and blue wavy lines across its tail. It was to the left of the motorway, on its final approach.
‘Is that it?’ asked Mickey, shouting to make himself heard over the noise of the slipstream. ‘Is that the plane?’
‘I think so,’ said Shepherd.
Time had slowed to a crawl. Kundi couldn’t remember the last time he had taken a breath. The kestrel had gone. The sky overhead was clear except for a few wispy clouds high overhead. It was as if all his senses had gone into overdrive. He could smell Chaudhry’s sandalwood aftershave. He could hear the engines of the approaching plane and he could feel the vibrations through the floor of the van. He felt as if he was one with the Stinger missile on his shoulder, as if it had somehow become an extension of himself. He heard Bradshaw on the phone. ‘Sixty seconds.’
‘Sixty seconds,’ repeated Chaudhry. He twisted around and shouted to Talwar and al-Sayed, ‘Lower the tailgate!’
Kundi stared fixedly at the sky’ Outside he heard Talwar and al-Sayed fumble with the bolts.
‘Mickey, pull over,’ shouted Shepherd. ‘Get onto the hard shoulder.’
Mickey flipped the turn indicator and swerved across the three lanes of the motorway.
Shepherd pulled his head back and looked at the GPS unit. They were directly opposite the park. ‘Stop here – they’re around here somewhere,’ he said.
Mickey pulled up and switched on his hazard indicators. Shepherd threw open the door and rushed over to the grass verge. In the distance he could see a furniture van parked in a lay-by. He shaded his eyes against the sun with a hand and scanned the area, still not sure what he was looking for. Mickey was at his shoulder. ‘This had better not be a wild-goose chase, mate,’ he said.
Shepherd looked at the fast-approaching airliner. He tried to work out its route in relation to the ground. He pointed at the furniture van. ‘That’s got to be it,’ he said.
Kundi heard the tailgate rattle down behind him. ‘Thirty seconds,’ said Chaudhry. He moved to the side, and Kundi flicked his thumb across the safety switch. ‘Safety off,’ he said.
‘Twenty seconds,’ said Chaudhry.
Time had virtually stopped. Kundi could hear the roar of the approaching jet and the vibrations rattled the sides of the van.
; ‘Ten seconds,’ said Chaudhry.
Kundi began to count on autopilot, barely aware that Chaudhry was counting with him. ‘Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one …’
‘Acquisition tone on,’ said Kundi. ‘Listening for the steady tone. Steady tone achieved.’ He pressed the uncaging switch with his left hand. The beeping was replaced by a steady tone, the signal that the IR targeting system had locked onto the plane. ‘Confirm steady tone,’ he said, as his finger tightened on the trigger. ‘Allahu akbar.’
Mickey’s jaw dropped as the two Asians pulled down the tailgate to reveal what was inside the furniture van. ‘Would you look at that?’ he shouted. ‘What the hell is it?’
‘A Stinger missile,’ said Shepherd, calmly. They were just over two hundred yards from the removals van but could clearly see the Asian man holding the missile launcher and pointing it up at the roof.
Shepherd dashed to the back of the Land Rover, pulled open the rear door and grabbed the last remaining RPG launcher from under the tarpaulin. Mickey was talking again, asking questions, but Shepherd ignored him. His heart was pounding – he had only seconds to act. He seized the warhead, slotted it into the launcher, then turned and dropped onto one knee in a smooth motion. He focused on the van, levelled the launcher, took a breath and pulled the trigger. The warhead streaked away and the sustainer motor kicked in, leaving a white trail behind. It seemed to cut through the air in slow motion and Shepherd felt his world collapse to the point at which his whole being was concentrated on the warhead and its target.
The 747’s engines were screaming and Mickey was shouting something. Then the warhead slammed into the back of the removals van and it erupted in a ball of flame.
The video camera in Bradshaw’s hand continued to record but he was no longer looking through the viewfinder. He stared at the 747 as it continued on its approach to the runway. He had no idea what had happened. He had been concentrating on the roof of the van, not wanting to miss the moment when the missile streaked towards the plane, but the vehicle had exploded. It was as if the jumbo jet had caused it to blow up, but Bradshaw knew that was impossible. A cloud of black smoke curled up from the wreckage and was whipped away by the turbulence in the wake of the descending jet. Bradshaw sat in the car, trying to collect his thoughts. His hands were shaking. He forced himself to breathe. He had no idea what had happened but he knew he had to get away from the area. He put the video camera on the passenger seat, turned on the engine and drove off.
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