by KC McLaren
The American did not reply. The other American who stood closer to Jason gave his gun over to which Jason did the same as Egil had done.
“Right ladies,” said Egil, “now we have that out of the way let’s see if we can get back on track. Do you both have any proper ID on you at all?”
Again there was no reply from the Americans. Egil rolled his eyes up. No ID, unauthorised weapons? Typical CIA but not typical on UK soil. In fact, very rare. This just gets better and better. He turned to his colleague, “Jason, contact the ops room. I want the last twenty minutes of CCTV feed from Oxford Tube station and don’t describe the girl as a sixteen-year-old girlie. Tell them who we are looking for. This Jonathan’s jacket, whoever he is, was sodden wet so it should be easy enough to spot. Find out where they are heading. Also, can you drive?”
“Yes, I’m ok. The canisters were running out by the time she got me,” Jason replied. “If I knock anyone over I’m sure the Americans can vouch for us. Do you want me to ask ops to monitor police chatter for anything about our little school girl incident?” With an innocent looking smile, he raised his eyebrows. Egil just rolled his eyes up again and shuck his head.
Should he contact his boss about the incident? He dismissed the idea. It would be best to figure out what he was getting into first. This Jonathan Beckett was not on any watch list so why was the security services involved in the first place? His orders had come straight from the top, his boss, Reginald D. Jacobs. That was unusual. And Jacobs was not someone to be messed with. There was little love lost between the two, let alone any trust. Jacobs had told him to be discrete, not to engage with the two Americans and bring the target back to Thames House. It was more or less as simple as that apart from having loose information about the whereabouts of the target. It bothered him about what Jonathan Beckett had said, someone dead in the café?
He put Jacobs out of his mind, “Jason, tell ops to patch what they can find through to the CCTV room at Oxford Circus Tube, we will head there now. Ask them to find out what happened at that internet cafe and why the police and services were there.” Jason nodded back whilst speaking to ops on his mobile.
The UK may have 1% of the world’s population, but it has over 20% of the world’s CCTV cameras in operation. Most were in the City of London. Link that information and data into some neat software and computers and a few people can get through the net, especially after the 2005 suicide terrorist bombings.
“You two,” Egil said pointing at the Americans. “When we get there, no speaking, no interaction, nothing. Understood?” They both nodded. “Right then, let’s move out.”
Chapter 15 | Avoiding the CCTV
AT THE TOP OF OXFORD TUBE STATION, the girl turned to Jonathan, “Your eyes will be fine. I need you to listen.” She pulled a ticket out of her pocket, “This is an all-day zone pass for the tube”. She shoved it into his hand and carried on striding down the steps pulling Jonathan along with her. “They won’t be following us yet. We have time to get clear…”
“Yes, yes. But who are you?” he replied, the frustration growing in his voice. “What the hell is going on and who do you work for?”
She ignored him, “I want you to travel from here up to Kings Cross using the Victoria Line. From there, take the Northern Line down to London Bridge then the Jubilee line to Canary Wharf. Once we are on the tube, don’t talk and don’t look at me. Just get moving. You understand, Jonathan?”
He was angry, bollocks! “I’m not taking one more step till I get answers!”
She stared at him as if hesitating, “OK, I will answer you one question. Who do I work for? That’s a simple one,” she looked up at him with those sparkling blue eyes, “I work for you Jonathan. Now let’s get moving or you can wait around for your buddies and take your chances with them.” She didn’t wait for a reply and continued walking down the steps.
He little choice and after taking one more look behind him he followed her. They hurried down the three flights and into the tube station. Jonathan felt a burning sensation in his eyes making it hard for him see, but he kept going. At least the busy tube station made it easy enough for them to mingle in with the crowd.
As they approached the ticket barrier she pulled off her backpack, opened it up and took out two baseball caps and a pack of what looked like wet wipes. She handed one to Jonathan telling him to clean his face and hands with it.
“It’s a sudecon based wet wipe and will counteract any spray that may have gotten into your eyes or on your face,” she said.
Jonathan didn’t understand what that was, but hey, if it helped relieve the burning sensation, all fine by him.
“Put this on,” she continued and handed him a baseball hat, putting the other one on herself.
“What’s next, dark glasses?” Jonathan replied.
She didn’t reply to his sarcasm instead she pushed her ticket into the turnstile, “I’ll be right behind you. Don’t run, just walk with the crowd. We’re not being followed.”
The gate flapped open, and the girl waved him forward. Not exactly a girl though. He followed the directions to the platform to board the tube for Kings Cross. By now he had forgotten all about the wet coat he was wearing. He was numb and never imagined it would be like this. She says she works for him? How could that be? They had only met for the first time today. The tube train arrived interrupting his thoughts, the doors opened, and he boarded. It tumbled off into the tunnel, the grimy brickwork running close to either side of the carriage. Jonathan checked the route map above a woman’s head standing next to him. Next stop Warren Street. As the train sped the motion rocked him side to side and looked around at his fellow passengers. They were all in their own little worlds playing with their mobile devices. Some were even reading newspapers, somewhat of an unusual pastime these days. Others avoided any eye-contact lost in their own thoughts of the day. To his left a man sitting with a leather bag at his feet picked fluff obsessively from his corduroy trousers. A woman next to him bent down and rustled about in one of her shopping bags, fished out a copy of ‘Hello’ magazine and flicked through the pages.
It felt somewhat surreal. All these people around him and not one of them with any knowledge of what was happening. On one hand he felt the urge to run again, get the hell out of Dodge City away from everyone including the girl. On the other he was too tired to do anything but follow instructions. After all she had been the one to get him out of a tight spot with the officers, whoever they were. But again, for what purpose?
The train’s PA system crackled into life with an automated female voice announcing the next stop, Warren Street.
He continued with his thoughts. More to the point if it were MI5 why were they involved? And the guns? At least two of them were carrying. From past dealings with working on classified projects, it was not the usual way they operated. They did not have that role, and they didn’t run around London with guns picking people up off the street. In fact, from his experience, and since the London July 7th bombings back in 2005, they worked much closer with the police. It was obvious they lied about being British Transport Police.
The platform lights rushed in from the opposite side of the carriage. The long blurs rushing by became poster advertisements of theatre productions and holidays and the train stopped with a gentle squeal of brakes.
‘Please mind the gap between the train and platform edge…’ the voice announced.
The temptation to get off and disappear overwhelmed Jonathan. The journey from Oxford Circus to Kings Cross would only take another three minutes. Could he slip off here unnoticed and get back into hiding? He spotted the girl about ten feet away with her back to him. Most of the people disembarking were moving off to the left and away from the girl, it would be easy to get lost in the crowd. The female voice interrupted his plans of a half-hearted escape.
‘Doors closing, please step away from the doors…’
The train continued on its way, next stop Euston. He still had time to get off but Euston cam
e and went by and they arrived at their first departure point, King's Cross St Pancras.
Jonathan hadn’t been at the station in a long time and felt a great sense of empathy take over him. He had intricate knowledge of the station, not the usual traveller’s knowledge, much more. It was the biggest interchange on the London Underground and served six lines on four pairs of tracks along with two National Rail stations.
He got off the tube, paused and looked around remembering those past events a lifetime ago. They should have headed his warnings. In somewhat of a robotic daze he followed the signs to the Northern Line on the west side of Kings Cross.
Yes, he knew everything there was to know about Kings Cross. In 2005 the station was the departure point for Tube 204 travelling eastbound between Liverpool Street and Aldgate. Eight minutes later a bomb went off killing seven innocent people plus the suicide bomber.
A further series of bomb attacks hit London's transport network that day. The first three exploded at 0850 on the underground trains just outside Liverpool Street and Edgware Road stations, the other on the King's Cross line. A final explosion happened an hour later on a number 30 double-decker bus in Tavistock Square, not far from King's Cross.
Jonathan remembered the pathetic statements from the government at the time – The Foreign Secretary believing the bombings had ‘all the hallmarks of an al-Qaeda-related attack’ He believed? It was staring you all in the face for goodness sake. And then of course, the egotistical and bombastic Prime Minister David Strickland promising the ‘most intense police and security service action to make sure we bring those responsible to justice’.
What a load of crap.
Fifty-two innocent people died that day along with seven-hundred injured. Jonathan knew every innocent name and everything about the suicide bombers. Three days earlier the highly classified government project, his code, predicted the date of the major terrorist incidents. It included the profiles and names of every single bomber. And why didn’t they head his warnings? Strickland, that’s why.
Jonathan felt a great overbearing responsibility for the bombings. Maybe he should have just given into Strickland’s strong-arm tactics and allowed full access to his source code. He believed Strickland’s stubbornness would never allow the bombers to continue, until it was too late. Then again he to give someone like Strickland total access and control of ThornScope would also jeopardise the freedom it protected.
The day was not getting any easier.
The next stop Canary Wharf, a major business and financial district and a modern megalopolis of skyscrapers, modern apartments, restaurants and bars. With some of the tallest buildings in the UK and tens of thousands of workers and residents, he wondered why come here? After all the district had plenty of CCTV and private security, including police check points.
He jostled his way off the packed tube train and walked out onto the vast underground concourse with its cathedral architecture and high ceilings. The girls walked a few steps behind and they both headed for the escalators.
He had an idea and stopped walking, turned around and waited for the girl to catch up, “There are plenty of CCTV cameras in here, a lot more than when we were travelling from Oxford Circus. It won’t take long before they find us.”
Impatient, she told him. “We have to keep moving.”
“That was a rhetorical question. By now they will have position. Come closer,” he replied.
She tried to reply but Jonathan cut her short. “Come here, please. Don’t worry I won’t be giving you any more pocket money.”
She hesitated but walked closer to him. Jonathan took his mobile out of his back pocket. It was time to act. He dialled in a six-digit number and pressed send.
“What are you doing, Jonathan?” she asked, looking up at him.
He smiled, “Well, how about pizza for on our first date?”
“That will not help the situation. This is a serious matter,” she said with a look of disapproval. “We need to keep moving. You are in great danger…”
She tried to pull away from him.
“Listen,” he grabbed her tighter, “the signal I’ve just sent will block out any CCTV cameras in a five-hundred-yard radius around us for about ten minutes. That should give us enough time to get out of here unseen.”
She looked at him puzzled, “That’s not likely, Jonathan. We need to go now. They will soon be onto us....”
He looked at her with a childish grin, “I developed the software that controls and monitors all the cameras in London.” And a lot bigger brother systems that people would never believe, “Actually, it’s a lot cleverer. The tracking systems don’t just monitor but also predict people’s movements. I left a few backdoors in the code for such an occasion…” He paused. “What should I call you? Since you work for me, I should know your name.”
“Sara, you can call me Sara. What do you mean backdoors?”
She knew a lot more about Jonathan’s code, but played along. “Listen, we need to get moving, we can discuss your hacking brilliance later...”
He released his grip on her and both of them headed towards the escalator.
A crowd of noisy teenagers carrying backpacks and suitcases, most likely on some school trip he surmised, crossed their paths slowing them down. When the pack passed, Jonathan noticed two men standing about ten feet away. Although dressed in street clothes they didn’t look at all friendly, their swagger and builds were not typical Joe Public.
Sara tugged on his jacket and urged him towards the escalator. She had also noticed the two swagger types walking towards them. They were close now.
“Excuse me. May we speak with you both for a moment?” asked one.
Sara turned from the man and pulled Jonathan with her, walking away. He heard the men pick up their speed. A distinct sound of a metallic click echoed around.
Sara looked at him, “They have weapons. That sound you heard? Most likely a blade locking into place from a switch knife.”
Whoever was following them earlier had found them again. How? And these two guys hadn’t been at the pepper spray party earlier.
Sara reading his thoughts said, “Not the same men from before, but no doubt from the same group. They are here to harm you Jonathan. Not in a physical way at least, but they won’t hesitate to take me out…”
Take you out? Damn it, what the hell is this. A De Niro movie? He looked around. From the direction the men approached they had forced them into an area of the concourse of the station that was less populated than the rest. While there were several groups of people that mingled around, they were not close enough to see what was happening. And worse, he realised that the CCTV cameras would no longer be monitoring the events.
Sara quickened her pace and Jonathan followed as they tried to put some distance between them and their pursuers. The two men matched their pace, Sara stumbled. Her legs appearing to twist in a painful contortion. Horrified, Jonathan realised the two men saw their chance to move in. As she fell the first man reached out to grab her as the other man readied his blade and pushed Jonathan hard. He stumbled backwards landing flat on his backside and slid along the floor several feet. As he tried to scramble back up Sara made a move that seemed to defy gravity. She halted her own fall and grabbed held of man number and Locked her right hand around the man’s wrist. With her left hand she pinched into the man’s elbow, he let out a shrill of pain. She resumed her fall and with a powerful thrust of her legs sent him sprawling across the floor.
Jonathan watched Sara role then came back up onto her knees just in time to parry the attack of the second man with the knife. She dodged the thrust but the edge of the thick handle caught her across the lower jaw. As the knife wielder prepared for another attack Jonathan noticed his accomplice sprawled on the floor trying to sit up.
Jonathan got up off his backside and raced over. The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun. Jonathan’s momentum carried him with speed into a rugby kick, his boot contacted heavy with the guy’s
ribs. Keeping his balance, he grabbed him by the shirt and pulling him off the floor landed several punches onto the man’s jaw knocking him back down. The guy released his grip on the gun and hesitant, Jonathan grabbed it. It had an extended barrel on it. A silencer? He bent down on one knee and turned back towards Sara, she was still on her knees. With both hands on the gun he aimed and brought her attacker into his view along the barrel. The attacker held the knife up high above Sara.
Shit, Jonathan had never fired a gun before in his life, let alone hold one. He had no choice and remembering all those cop movies he pulled the trigger. Click. Nothing happened. Click again, again nothing.
Jonathan fumbled with the gun.
Why won’t the damn thing bloody fire? He looked up and saw the events taking place with Sara and her attacker. The knife arced down in a slicing motion. As it came down in its deathly curve, he realised what was wrong with the gun. The damn safety switch was on. He tried fumbling with it again. How the hell does this thing switch over?
Sara, oblivious to Jonathan’s predicament, was not waiting to be saved. As the assailant let loose with his attack, she caught hold of his arm and blocked it with her elbow. With her free arm she drove her fist upwards hard into the groin of the attacker making him bend double over. Still holding on to the arm she quickly stood up. In one swift move she grabbed it with her other hand and twisted the arm over her head forcing the attacker to move with her. It made him tumble head over heels landing heavy on his back, he released the knife. He tried grabbing it but Sara read the move kicking it away. She twisted her body in the opposite direction with his arm and cocking her leg over it forced the man to roll over onto his front. His elbow locked against the back of Sara’s knee, she pulled on his hand backwards. A loud crack of bone breaking echoed around the concourse, the man squealed out in desperate pain.
