by Glenn Cooper
“Hardly worth the fuss,” Ben said.
“We were concerned because he may be closing in on a civilian hospital. He appears to be continuing on that course.”
“Which hospital is that?”
“The Homerton University Hospital.”
“Where did you pick him up?” Ben asked.
“We started tracking him on the Richmond Road in Hackney.”
“Kip, do we know if there are any medical staff remaining there?”
The young analyst said he’d check and quickly came back to say that no one was responding at the casualty department.
“The hospital might be fully evacuated,” Ben announced.
“It’s your call, sir,” Major Garabedian said. “From his clothes we’re making the call he’s a Heller.”
“Yes, thanks for that,” Ben said curtly. “Which street is he on?”
“It’s Fenn,” Kip said. “If he makes a right on Homerton Ave the hospital’s right there.”
“Stand by,” Ben said. “You do not yet have my authorization.”
Woodbourne ran to the end of Fenn Street. To his right he saw the low, tan-brick hospital buildings and a sign for the casualty entrance. He turned down the empty Homerton Grove, his lungs aching.
From Drone Warfare: “He appears to be about to enter the hospital. Do we have permission to fire?”
Ben studied the image of the speeding man. If he was going to the hospital, why was that? What would possess a Heller to run as fast as he could through Hackney toward a hospital neither pursuing nor being pursued?
“Do we have permission to fire?”
Ben watched the man veer into the casualty forecourt and then he was gone from view, presumably inside.
“Target lost,” Garabedian said. There was a crackling sound from over the speaker then Garabedian again with a different, less professional tone saying, “Hope to fuck he doesn’t kill any innocents.”
The staff at the ops centre looked away from Ben in discomfort.
“What did you say?” Ben demanded.
There was a brief silence as Garabedian realized he hadn’t hit the mute button properly. “Sorry, sir. Slip of the tongue.”
“Don’t second-guess me again, Major. It won’t be good for your career. Keep eyes on this area and let’s see what develops if anything.”
Woodbourne got to the sliding glass doors of the casualty department and tried pushing on them. When that didn’t work he tried pulling them apart. Pounding on the doors with his fists didn’t raise anyone. In frustration he put his shoulder against the door once, twice, three times and then for the fourth try he stepped back and hurled himself at the safety glass which shattered into thousands of rounded pieces.
He stepped through and was at the reception desk.
“Hello?” he called out. “I need a doctor.”
His words echoed.
“Anybody?”
He wandered through casualty, the empty patient cubicles, the trauma room, all neat, tidy, and empty. The sun streaming through the large panes in the corridor leading to the wards stung his sensitive eyes. He had to blink and squint to read the directory. The Starlight Children’s Unit was on the first floor.
Exiting the stairwell, at first he thought the unit was as vacant as everywhere else but then he heard a whooshing sound and followed it. It took him to the open doors of the pediatric intensive care unit. In the closest glass-lined room to the doors he saw a small boy, motionless in bed, a tube down his nose, a ventilator bellows rising and falling.
“Excuse me, may I help you?”
The voice was a woman’s, urgent, authoritative, challenging.
“Help me? Yes. I need a doctor.”
The nurse said, “You’re not supposed to be here. The hospital’s closed. How did you get in?”
“There’s a girl. She’s very ill.”
The nurse seemed to suddenly focus on the things about him that were wrong: his clothes, his furtive, darting eyes, his body odor.
She started walking backwards, a hesitant step at a time. “Are you …?”
“I need a doctor,” he said matching her, step-by-step.
“George!” she screamed. “George, I need you!”
A tall, lanky man with heavy stubble and a stethoscope draped around his neck appeared from another room.
“What’s the …”
He didn’t finish the sentence because he saw Woodbourne and he too must have recognized the nature of the threat.
“Listen,” the doctor said, “we don’t want any trouble. We've got three very sick children here who were too ill to be transported. We’re the only ones left in the hospital. If it’s food you want, we can let you have some of ours. Then we need you to leave.”
“Are you a doctor?”
“Yes I am. Dr. Murray.”
“There’s a sick girl not far from here. Her mother’s with her. I need you to come with me to sort her out.”
“I’m confused,” Murray said. “You don’t seem to be from …” He paused, appearing to search his brain for the right way to put it. “You don’t seem to be from around here.”
“I’m not. But I used to be.”
“What’s your name?”
“Brandon. Brandon Woodbourne.”
The doctor’s tone turned soothing but it didn’t come across as genuine. “Brandon, may I call you by your first name?”
“I don’t care.”
“Brandon, our understanding from what we’ve heard from the authorities is that there are no children from where you’re from.”
“You can call it by its name. Go ahead, say it.”
“Yes, well, Hell, I suppose. Hard to fathom it.”
“The girl’s from here. So’s her mother.”
The nurse asked, “We didn’t think …”
Woodbourne interrupted, “Didn’t think that Hellers did anything good? We’re not all animals. The girl and her mother—they mean a lot to me.”
“Terrible things are happening in London,” the nurse said. “We’re all scared.”
“You should be scared,” Woodbourne said. “You should be scared of me. I was a murderer. I am a murderer. But I need your help and I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
“What’s the matter with this girl?” Murray asked.
“She had a bad earache. Her mother gave her medicine last night but it didn’t help. Today she’s got fever and won’t wake up.”
“How old is she?”
“I don’t know children’s ages. She’s about this high.”
He held his hand at his waist.
“I see,” Murray said. “Do you know what medicine she was given?”
Benona had given him a capsule. He showed it.
“We’re seeing a lot of resistance to amoxicillin lately,” the doctor said, handing it back. “It may be that the infection has spread to her brain and spinal cord. She may have meningitis.”
“Is that bad?”
“It can be very bad,” the nurse said. “She probably needs to get a different antibiotic via a drip.”
“I agree,” Murray said. “You’ve got to bring her here.”
“No. I want you to come with me,” Woodbourne said.
“Neither of us can leave,” Murray said firmly, though his voice had a quaver. “These three children are far too ill for one person.”
He turned menacing. “I can make you come.”
“Here’s the thing,” Murray said. “Even if I went with you, even if both of us went with you, this girl sounds too sick to care for at home. She likely needs more than medicine. She may need to be on a breathing machine and a vital signs monitor like these. She may die at home. She may live if you bring her here.”
“If I do, will you promise to treat her?”
“Yes, I promise,” Murray said.
“If you don’t, you know I’ll kill you.”
“Yes, I believe you.”
Woodbourne rubbed his face as he thought. “All right. I’ll br
ing her here.”
“How far is it?” the nurse asked.
“About two miles.”
“How did you get here?”
“I ran.”
“You won’t be able to get an unconscious girl here on foot,” the nurse said.
“I’ll steal a car.”
The nurse fished some keys from her smock. “The red Vauxhall parked in front of casualty in one of the ambulance spaces. That’s mine.”
Woodbourne seemed surprised at the unfamiliar sensation of a tear running down his face. He wiped it and looked at the moisture on his fingers before taking the keys.
“Thank you.”
The camera on the Predator drone picked up the large man exiting the hospital.
“There he is again,” Major Garabedian announced over the speaker.
“I see him,” Ben replied.
Ben watched the man approach a car.
“He’s breaking into a car,” Garabedian said.
“Is he?” Ben asked. “It appears he’s just used a key.”
The red car sped off down Homerton Grove and made a left, the wrong way down one-way Fenn Street, the camera tracking along.
“In any event, it is our opinion that he is a Heller and he has taken command of a vehicle. Do we have your permission to fire?”
Ben remained quiet, intently watching the car work its way westbound through Hackney.
“Do we have permission?”
“Something’s off here,” he said, too softly for Garabedian to hear.
“Sorry, what was that?”
Ben looked down from the monitor and glowered at the Polycom speaker as if it were animate.
“You do not, repeat, you do not have permission to fire. You will continue to track the car. I want to see where he’s going.”
A testy “Affirmative” came down the line.
Ben returned to the monitor. The car was being maneuvered on a seemingly decisive course through the borough. On the straight stretch of Richmond Road it opened up to a speed that Ben estimated to be at least sixty miles per hour.
“Looks like he’s heading over to Kingsland,” Kip, the analyst, said.
“Maybe,” Ben replied.
The car crossed over the railway bridge and made a left onto Glebe Road but instead of making a quick right to Kingsland carried on straight down Glebe and pulled over to the curb. The man jumped out and entered a building.
“Jesus,” Ben said. “Jesus Christ.”
“What is it?” Kip asked.
“I know that building. I’ve been there before. A Polish woman lives there with her daughter. Two months ago a Heller held her hostage there. We captured him and sent him back. This man we’ve been tracking. I know his name. It’s Brandon Woodbourne.”
Garabedian’s voice came over the speaker, “Then we’ve missed our chance to kill the scum.”
Ben didn’t answer him. “He’s just been to the hospital and back. I think he’s just done something all together decent. Kip, get into my files and find that Polish woman’s phone number. I need to ring her straight away.”
“So how many bullets you got?” Willie asked Del, arriving back at Willie’s flat.
“Just the five in the gun,” Del said.
“That’s pathetic. I thought you were a gangster and all.”
“Who told you I was a gangster?”
“It’s what everyone says,” Willie said, pouring a fresh pot of tea. “Is it poppycock?”
“Well, maybe I was one. It’s just I don’t like it when people talk about me behind my back.”
“What do you expect? What else do people have to do in an old-age home?”
“Well, it’s all I got. Five slugs.”
“Can’t do much damage with that, can we?”
Del admired the tea and asked what brand it was. “PG Tips? Lovely cuppa. So, Willie, what did you used to do?”
“Different things. When I was a young pup, right after the war I was in a bomb disposal unit in London. Used to get ten, twenty calls a day to defuse unexploded German bombs. Hairy work but I got out with all me fingers and toes. After that I got my master electrician qualifications and went to work for …”
“I don’t give a toss about the electricals trade,” Del said, suddenly interested. “Tell me more about the bomb trade.”
“What’s to tell? A bomb got found. We lads removed the fuse. Full stop.”
“Yeah, but can you build ’em?”
“Build a bomb? Me?”
“No, not you. The queen of England.”
“I never built one but I know how they’re built. Why?”
“To blow up the bloody Hellers in our cafeteria, of course. What are you, thick?”
“You want me to build a bomb?”
“Yeah, why not? What would we need to blow them back to Hell?”
Willie looked around his one-bedroom flat. “Oh, let’s see. I’ve got black powder in my wardrobe, lengths of iron pipe in my socks drawer, det-cord in the loo.”
“Don’t be snarky with me,” Del said. “I never liked snarky blokes.”
“Look, Del, I don’t know what to say. I’m an old man with old-man possessions, none of them deadly save my dirty underwear. Even MacGyver wouldn’t have anything to work with.”
“No, I’m serious. Yours ain’t the only flat in the building. What would you need to build a bomb that ordinary folks might have lying about?”
Willie got up and paced around the sofa.
He began to mumble to himself and Del heard things like “won’t find any gunpowder, will we?” and “won’t find fertilizer around here” and “might find a propane tank” and “we’d need something bloody efficient in a small package” then, more brightly, “iron oxide’s no problem, vinegar, check, got plenty of nuts and bolts, but, there’s that, isn’t it?”
Del couldn’t stand it any longer. “There’s what? What have you figured?”
“If we could get at a toy store, I reckon I could build something that would wipe out a roomful of those buggers.”
Del picked his gun off the kitchen table and grabbed Willie’s sleeve.
“Come back to my place. I’ve got a whole chest full of toys.”
Willie stared into a large wooden chest crammed with puppets, plastic musical instruments, building sets, videos, and board games.
“What the hell are you doing with all this gear?” he asked.
“Grandkids, of course. They leave them off with me on weekends and go off for a curry and a few pints. If I didn't have the magic chest I’d go absolutely bonkers.”
“Mind if I rummage?”
“To your heart’s content.”
“Give me a pillow, then.”
“What for? You need a kip?”
“For my bloody knees.”
Willie got down on his knees and began poking through the box, pulling things out to see what was beneath. He showed interest in a plastic car with rubber wheels.
“You got the remote control for this?”
“If it’s in the chest I’ve got it. If it ain’t I don’t.”
Willie found it, stuffed inside a hand puppet.
“Could be useful,” he mumbled, plunging further into the depths. Then, with the wooden bottom beginning to show he reached down and said, “Jackpot.”
He held it up triumphantly. A red Etch-a-Sketch.
“What do you plan to do with that?” Del said. “Draw a picture of a bomb?”
“Ye of little faith,” Willie said. “Come on, back to my flat. Chop chop.”
They worked into the night, Willie using the kitchen table as his workbench, Del on guard duty making forays with his pistol into the hall and the stairwell, checking the windows for signs of the Hellers.
Willie had a small assortment of tools spread out before him with a smashed Etch-a-Sketch and remote-control bits off to one side and his kitchen fire extinguisher, unscrewed and emptied. With his reading glasses low on his nose and his gnarled hands drilling holes and strippi
ng wires, the years seemed to fall away. He even took to humming as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Every so often he added to his running commentary about the qualities of thermite.
“You see, the aluminum powder in the Etch-a-Sketch, that’s the key, my son. Now you need to add iron oxide, which is where the steel-wool pads and vinegar comes in, but when it’s all nice and mixed together you’ve got thermite. Generates a hell of a lot of heat and energy when it’s ignited, say with a nice little spark of electricity from a battery.”
“I really wish you’d put a sock in it, mate,” Del said, having a bit more whiskey. “I’m sick of listening to you prattle on. As long as it goes bang, I’ll be happy as a clam.”
After a while, Willie looked up from his work to rest his eyes. “So you were a gangster then?”
“I said I was, didn’t I?” Del said. “What’s it to you?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Wondering what?”
“If you ever, you know, did someone in.”
Del shook his head. “Just because I got a gun don’t mean I ever killed no one. It was just a tool of the trade.”
“A screwdriver was a tool of my trade and I used one all the time.”
“Look, we did a lot of thieving in my day and I used to bring a piece with me just in case but I never used it. You see all this rot on TV and you think all us old-timers used to go around like Dillinger. It wasn’t like that. Sometimes we’d rob a jewelry store or a bank and give ’em cigarettes to calm themselves while we went about our business.”
“So you were a humanitarian,” Willie said with a laugh.
Del sneered back. “Yeah, exactly.”
At 4 a.m. Willie declared victory and woke up a napping and disoriented Del to show him the finished product.
The fire extinguisher was screwed back together. Inside was the home-made thermite, packed tight with cotton strips from a pair of undershorts and all the nuts, bolts, screws, and nails that both men had in their flats. An electrical wire plunged through the small hole drilled into the fire extinguisher. The wire was connected to the toy car remote-control receiver and battery pack that were strapped to the extinguisher tube with black electrical tape.
“That’s not going to go off in here, is it?” Del asked.
Willie held up the remote-control box. “Not unless I push this button.”
