The Bible
King James Version
Chapter 56
“Ready?”
“Yes. But are you?”
“Of course. I have waited for this moment all of my adult life.”
“Then let us go.”
“And when it is done may we bathe in the glory of this for the rest of our lives my brother?”
They both had facial hair, had changed their eye colour, sported broad-strapped military-style watches on their right wrists, wore the requisite corporate clothing, and knew the drill – knew everything they needed to know for their part. They had spent days reading and readying for this.
The best part of the whole charade was that the most important people in the British government actually had the arrogance to think they were in control of their own future, not a small team who had grown up, in some cases, quite literally on the streets.
Gypsies they called them. How dare they?
They got into the latest of half a dozen throw away cars and drove east along the Thames until they reached the North Woolwich Road, before turning onto a minor road where they parked in a staff car park and confidently walked into work with the others. IDs clipped on, orange hi-vis vests, safety hats, matter of fact faces, heads slightly bowed, another day at work.
It looked completely normal. It needed to and did. They had first arrived a few months before. Skilled migrant workers, just more of the same, over from mainland Europe with a dream to fill and pockets to line and families to feed. They worked hard and kept themselves to themselves. That suited the locals who tended to get the higher paid jobs – and so, everyone was happy.
Across the water, south of the river, another team mirrored those to the north. Two men, same dress, bearing falsely created but highly accurate IDs. Heads down against the wind that glanced off of the river.
God it was cold. Soon indoors.
Back at the northern side a coach party arrived. Old people. And a school bus. Younger. Both with the same goal, to quickly get inside the visitor centre and have a look at one of the new wonders of the world. Another twenty or so day visitors had also arrived, tourists and locals who checked in at the visitor centre and waited for their tour to start.
“The last great event was in January 1928.” He had the group in the palm of his hand. In 1953 we almost witnessed another, of equal drama but it would be six years later that we learned just how much power nature has.”
The tour guide was passionate and the old folk listened, stopped to read everything, kept warm, down below, watching in awe, nowhere else to go. The kids did what kids on school trips did – annoy the ones who were there to learn and try the patience of a saint. Or their teacher in this case.
One mixed-race boy from Shepherd’s Bush had decided that he was bored and pulled away from his care worker. ADHD they called it. Attention deficit. He seemed pretty switched on to the male who had grabbed his arm as he ran, full tilt towards a solid steel door.
The boy had never felt such strength from a man who was smaller than most men he had met, including his long-departed father.
Wiry arms, dense black hair, a smart watch, broad strapped, sitting below a cuff, knitted, black like his new growth of hair. He had blue eyes and dark hooded brows, looked like he hadn’t slept in days.
He smelled of something. The boy had no idea. But it was nice.
He somehow felt that this was a battle he was going to lose.
The male lowered himself down onto one knee, watched by the teacher and the carer, then leaned into his personal space before whispering.
“If you go through that door you will drown in the river and trust me it is very, very cold today. Dark too. They might never find you. You will swirl around beneath the water, dinner for the fishes. Perhaps be a good boy instead?”
The look that followed said everything it needed to say. The man had a nice smile. The man with him didn’t. He looked scary, the boy would later tell his mother, a hardworking white girl in her twenties with a heroin-shattered smile of her own.
“Thank you.” The teacher smiled. “He’s a handful. I don’t know what you said, but it seemed to work.”
“My pleasure.” An accent.
“Polish?”
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Call it an educated guess.” She smiled, thanked him again and returned to the group as the pensioners tutted and shook their heads.
The party walked down a narrowing corridor somewhere under or within the iconic structure. It was considered by many to be the most influential building in the city, up front and purposeful, but the actual heroes lay elsewhere, hidden from view.
The pinewood interiors added another unexpected smell to what was already a sensory overload; wood and metal and a feint mustiness that never quite left the air.
The tour took in the control room, then down into the tunnel. Borough engineers would willingly state for the records that there are twenty-three tunnels under the River Thames, conspiracy theorists suggest more and some even said there was at least one secret subterranean thoroughfare for government workers only.
Deeper into the tunnel they walked, beneath the river, out of sight. The guide stopped, raised a hand, waited. “Hear that?”
It was a small ship passing overhead. The throb of its propellers mixed with faraway voices, workers in inaccessible parts of the structure. The children were finally quiet. It was an amazing place to be.
The place was built to last. Anti-terror, anti-aging, anti-anything, they had thought of it all. Thick concrete and immensely heavy steel doors were everywhere, each back-up system had another. Each gate had its own motor and five spares. If the National Grid failed to provide power, three generators seamlessly stepped in. Bomb-proof, beyond failure.
The guide laughed poignantly as he recalled the time a three thousand tonne dredger had hit part of the superstructure. It sank, he said, with practically no damage to his beloved workplace. He was so engaged with the story that he never looked back and counted heads.
“The main tunnel components lie under the water. So yes, ships can simply pass over the top. We close them now and then, when heavy weather is expected or for maintenance. Last September. Approximately three thousand seven hundred tonnes.” He was fielding questions from all angles now. “With this wonderful machinery in place only a truly immense event could defeat us.”
“Is security tight?” an old warhorse asked, his British Legion veteran badge proudly displayed on his collar as he leant onto his walking stick.
“Imagine a duck’s bottom sir?” He was. “That tight.” It raised a giggle from the pensioners.
“Right we need to move along folks. No gift shop but a really nice café with great views.”
In the time that the questions had been asked two of the group had discreetly swapped places. Through a door marked P5.
It was as planned; in quick, behind the door and away from any surveillance, a rapid change of clothes, IDs exchanged, hands shaken, an embrace from the boss. Job done.
In the control room the operator swung the pan-tilt-zoom system near P5 back into place. The tour groups waved goodbye, the wind continued to whistle along the Thames corridor. Business as usual.
In the Atlantic Ocean, a low pressure system was rapidly building. Pushing a surge north of Scotland, down the coast, towards the southeast of England where the rising waters funnelled into the natural opening created by the Thames. A gaping, voracious mouth swallowing all nature could throw at her.
The Meteorological Office was monitoring the situation. The Environment Agency checked data and checked again. The UK National Tideguage Network ran tests, then repeated them. The Ports of London Authority began to issue a warning to small and larger craft in case a decision was made to ready the Thames Barrier for action.
Closing the system was not something the managers took lightly. They needed twelve hours to notify the many river users and to put safety measures in place.
The actual cl
osure took ninety minutes. A slow, meticulous process.
“Mister Speaker, Prime Minister, colleagues, friends. I bring news of a meteorological system fast approaching the city of London.” He let the words hang in the air. “A king tide, a surge driven by an Atlantic weather system. One, which need I remind you could have an effect upon our livelihoods, our security and the economy.”
The Minister of the Environment spoke, calmly, and concisely, passionate but cautious.
He waited for a challenge.
“Shadow Minister Barnes.” The Speaker controlled the house as eloquently as always, as an umpire controls a tennis match.
“And when is this great flood likely to hit us?” Barnes was standing as he spoke, smugly.
“I did not say flood Mister Speaker. I simply said a king tide and one which we simply must prepare for. We would all agree that today this is not a political podium but a platform of common sense. Assuming of course…” He looked at his opposition with a raised eyebrow and a cheer erupted. The Speaker frowned.
“Order. Order.”
“We would be better prepared if this government had invested wisely in the past Mister Speaker!” A larger cheer emanated from the left of house. “Should this tide that the member for Thurrock refers to come to fruition then need I remind the house that the very House itself would be under threat…” He paused for effect causing Barnes to leap to his feet but he was ready to knock him back down.
“Mister Speaker not only would this venerable house be damaged but Canary Wharf, eighty-six rail and tube stations, sixteen hospitals and over half a million homes. And to allow us all to focus the news that the weather has worsened will change all predictions.”
“So Mister Speaker when are we to expect this tidal surge?” Barnes was quieter. Battle lost.
“Tomorrow night. Now, perhaps I have the attention of the house?”
He did. The Speaker controlled the house, restoring order. All agreed that for now politics should take a back seat. The session ended.
As the Prime Minister exited the house he was approached by his opposition leader Jeff Cartledge.
“Prime Minister. Do you have a second?”
“For you Jeff, anytime.”
They walked, Cartledge talked. Politics aside they admired one another.
“Rumours abound James. Let’s forget policy for the next few minutes. I’ve got a source, they tell me that things are about to heat up. Need to know or not, what can you tell me?”
“What do you want to know?” It surprised the staunch Labour man.
“Is it true that there is a document in circulation? One that could undermine our position in Europe?” Straight to the point.
“Yes.” Equally minimalistic.
“Does it concern you?”
“Would it concern you?” Spin.
“I imagine it would.” Non-committal.
“Then it would concern me too Jeff, concern both of us. Can we at least work together on this?” It was unprecedented. He needed to establish Cartledge’s agenda before he dared to release the more timely aspect of the next forty-eight hours – and God knows when he might discuss the potential end of the monarchy – something which he knew Cartledge would endorse without any fight.
He told him what he could. Swore him to secrecy. They shook hands and parted. James got back to his office, had calls made to his Home Secretary, Police Minister and Deputy. Michael Blake was still not answering.
“So we know the bank vaults were a major piss take. A chance to distract us?” Roberts was swirling a pen between his fingers, it helped him to concentrate.
“We do. But we had to chase that side of things. They’ve been hammering the banks lately but the front line have done well to rein it in. Damned if we do and all that. Worst case is we’ve lost Nick in the process. The team is devastated. They are quieter than I have ever seen them.” Cade looked at Daniel. “Anything to add, seeing as though you seem to know more than most of us JD? How many more staff do we lose before this finally gets thrown open to the masses?”
“I detect a hint of anger Jack. We are too close for that to happen. You’ll just have to accept I did things for a reason. No one likes losing a team member – least of all me. But we simply cannot go public on this. You have to understand that? And for the record, I’m sorry, to both of you. Deceit is not a word in my thesaurus.”
“That I accept, and your apology too, however, any more ambiguities to clear before we step into the minefield that is the next forty-eight hours?”
Daniel inhaled through his lower teeth. This one wouldn’t be easy.
“When you met Elena for the first time…?” Cade nodded, he was back there at his restaurant in New Zealand the Oceanside, visualising the moment she had walked into the bar and his life.
“You told me you were cautious, yet threw that caution to the wind. She’s a stunning girl, who can blame you after the problems you had had with your ex?”
Cade didn’t want to dwell on the past. “Your point?”
“She was there to meet you Jack, but didn’t plan to stay long, nor did she anticipate actually finding you as attractive as she did. Her goal was actually to find me. She knew I was in New Zealand. Someone had told her that if she found you, she would find me.” He frowned, worried he had offended a man he considered a lifelong friend.
“So, in that case how did she know where to come looking for me?”
“Her mother. Nikolina sent her a letter, back in the day, when she was a younger girl, outlined it all, except for one small detail. She never provided her with the full story. Her dream was that having killed Alex she would get to London, meet her contact and then get Elena to the UK too. But as we all know that never happened.”
“And?” Cade pressed on, Roberts sat back and listened.
“And the letter also told her how to pursue her one real question in life – one that troubled her - who her father was. It was something that troubled her greatly, something that was once said to her about her parents. But she maintained her stance. Perhaps a reason for her determination in seeking revenge against him when he tried to kill her too.”
“Well, forgive me for appearing cocksure but that’s easy JD. It doesn’t take a detective to work that one out. You only have to read the intelligence files on Alex Stefanescu to work that little conundrum out. He loved his little girl, loved her mother at one point too. Problem was, he fell out with her dear old mum when she tried to make good on her promise to the Bulgarian government to kill him, so he drowned her. But he’s a clever bugger is the Jackdaw – made it look like it was all Jack’s fault and in turn mine, and in turn anyone else that worked on our operation to target him.” He placed the pen onto his desk, straightening it so it ran parallel to the edge of the blotter.
“I rest my case.”
“I get the impression that you know the answer to her conundrum John?”
“Sadly, I do.”
“It’s not you is it?”
“No! And her father is going to very unhappy.” He let the initial bombshell settle, then there was a knock on the door stopping him in his tracks.
“Guv, the team is ready to move.” It was a resilient McGee.
“You sure you are up to this Bridie?”
“Hundred percent boss. We leave in three.”
Scott McCall had shaved his beard off, leaving a tanned face and curling dark hair. He shaved that too. Then dressed.
Stefan Stefanescu lowered a brown contact lens into his eye, creating a pair, then stepped back and admired his handiwork. His hair was darker, much, his facial hair was also darker, longer than it had been in years, the odd grey hair was appearing, which he had plucked from his chin. He checked the ID, it looked good. Tried on the hard hat, it fitted well.
“Do we have all we need Scott?”
“All the Ps are in order, mate. Let’s go, who dares and all that.”
It meant nothing to the Romanian brother of a notorious criminal. But he sort of unders
tood McCall’s passion.
“We’ve deployed three teams ma’am.” Roberts was addressing the Home Secretary and doing his best to be professional with the Police Minister, a man he disliked intently, but one he had to kowtow to, just like all of his colleagues.
Harry Halford spoke. “Describe the make-up of these teams please DCI Roberts.”
“Three teams, two in each, five men, one woman.”
“And you really feel that six people is enough to counter what might be the greatest threat to the city of London in forty years?” He glared at Roberts, scanned the room like a ravenous barn owl, waiting to pick off the weakest mouse.
“Given the circumstances, the need for secrecy, we do, sir. Yes. Now if I may continue?”
“No, you may bloody well not Roberts. I asked you a question and once again you have been at best disrespectful.” He slammed his palm onto the meeting table surface.
“And respectfully I answered it.” Roberts could feel himself subtly shaking with rage. Wanting to slam his own fist into the furniture. Just one punch. He was itching to do it. Would happily break his hand doing it.
“I fail to see what more I can add Minister?” He looked at Sassy Lane, hoping for support.
She stepped in. “Harry, I think what the DCI is saying is that he has confidence in his squad and time is of the essence. So, can we move on?”
“Report on my desk within the hour. I want to know who is one the teams, their background, skills etc. No errors, no omissions. Understood? If this goes tits up Roberts I will hold you personally to blame.” He stood, bid Lane goodbye and left.
“Ma’am. I’m sorry but…”
“Not another word DCI Roberts.” She smiled a half smile and also got up, this time causing the staff present to swiftly jump to their feet. Respect was earned.
“If I may Home Secretary?” Cade fixed her with his trademark gaze.
“Briefly Mr Cade, very briefly.”
“No one knows who to trust anymore ma’am. You’ll note the Commissioner himself is absent. It’s how it needs to be. But people are getting a little tired, a touch fraught. Hence the scene you’ve just witnessed. I need you to support the team in a way that may cause you some consternation, possibly even risk your own reputation. I can explain why off record. In the meantime I will have our analyst knock out that report. It will be bullet points only. With your blessing I would like to redact the bio data of my staff.”
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 55
