‘I blame TV,’ said Gannon. ‘Newspapers make do with words but TV needs pictures and sound. The Iranian embassy siege did it for us. Once they saw us in action they wanted to know everything. Next thing we know there’s movies about us, kill-and-tell books, the works.’
‘I don’t know who thought openness was a good thing,’ said Roberts, ‘but they should have slapped a D Notice on anything connected with you guys. Now every man and his dog knows what weapons you have and how you train.’
‘And everyone in the world knows where MI6 is,’ agreed Gannon.‘Never understood that. They’re supposed to be the Secret Service but they allow their HQ to be featured in a James Bond movie. And they act all surprised when the IRA takes a pot-shot at them with an RPG.’
There was a knock on the door and a secretary showed in Greig Mulhern, number three at Special Branch. He shook hands with Gannon and Roberts and sat on a sofa in the corner of the room. He was a bulky man, almost square, with a thick neck and bullet-shaped head.
‘Coffee’s on the way,’ said Roberts. The meeting had no agenda and no notes were taken. It was just an opportunity to share information without having to go through multiple layers of bureaucracy.
‘Martin not here yet?’ asked Mulhern. Martin Jackson was the fourth member of the group and as he had furthest to travel he was, more often than not, the last to arrive. He worked for GCHQ, the government’s eavesdropping facility that monitored phone, satellite and Internet traffic around the world.
‘On his way,’ said Roberts. ‘How’s business?’
‘We’ve got the Yanks on our back, big-time,’ said Mulhern. ‘They want us to put undercover guys in the London mosques. They’re picking up intel that al-Qaeda’s planning a big one in the UK.’
‘That’s just them wanting to keep us on side,’ said Gannon. ‘Every time public opinion swings against what they’re doing in Iraq, they crack on that the whole world’s in danger. Remember what Bush said? You’re either with us or against us.’
Mulhern scratched at his shirt collar. He had short arms and he always had trouble finding shirts that fitted. Either the sleeves were too long or the collars too tight.‘They’re not talking specifics,but they rarely do in case they give away their sources. But they say there’s a big one being planned and that they’ll be using Muslims with British passports. Invisibles.’
‘That narrows it down to – what? About a million?’ Gannon laughed.
‘Thing is, do you know how many Arabs we have in Special Branch? Or how many could even pass for Arab or Pakistani? The answer is a big fat zero.’
‘Five’s the same,’ said Roberts. ‘They’ve got Oxbridge graduates who can speak the languages and who know everything there is to know about the culture, but they’re all whiter than white, so undercover operations are out of the question. We’re only just getting black officers into our undercover units. We don’t have a single Arab we could put into play.’
‘What’s the nature of the London threat?’ asked Gannon.
Mulhern shrugged. ‘No details. But there’s been heavy selling short of the UK market through New York from clients out in the Middle East. That much is a fact. Someone reckons the London stock market is going to plunge.’
‘Not all terrorists play the market,’ said Gannon, drily.
‘Agreed, but there was a lot of selling short of shares in the airlines whose planes crashed into the World Trade Center,’ said Mulhern. ‘But it’s not just the trading, there’s been phone traffic in which British Muslims were referred to.’
‘Do you think they’ve got intel they’re not telling you about?’ asked Roberts.
Mulhern frowned. ‘It’s possible, but if they have they’re playing it close to their chest. They might well have an undercover agent somewhere in the al-Qaeda network and don’t want to expose him by giving us the full details.’
‘So what’s the game plan?’ asked Gannon.
‘We’ve got sympathetic Muslims in most of the country’s mosques,’ said Mulhern. ‘We’ll put out feelers. That’s about all we can do. Martin can tell us what GCHQ is doing. I’m sure the National Security Agency has already been on to them.’
A harsh beeping came from the metal case at the side of the sofa. It was Gannon’s satellite phone. He stood up and went to it. As he reached for it, the pager on Mulhern’s belt went off. As Mulhern checked the message, one of the phones on Roberts’s desk rang.
The three men exchanged a worried look. It couldn’t be a coincidence that they were being contacted at the same time. Something had happened. Something big.
Rose sat deep in thought as Sutherland drove the ARV away from the traffic-lights. It was a cold day but the heater was on too high and he could feel sweat running down his back. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran his hand over his shaved head.
‘You okay, Sarge?’ asked Sutherland.
‘Huh?’
‘You’re a million miles away. Something wrong?’
Rose forced a smile. ‘Just bored. I hate these days when nothing happens.’
Dave Bamber was sitting in the back by the MP5s. He was a ten-year veteran of SO19, a Welshman with a shock of freckles across his nose and cheeks. ‘I like a quiet day, myself,’ said Bamber.
‘It’s because we haven’t got Jonah on board,’ said Sutherland.
‘Jonah?’
‘Stu Marsden. Every time we have him in the back, shit happens. First day on the job we get the call to Big Ben. Then the shoot-up at the pizza place.’
‘Yeah, bugger about Kev, right?’
‘He’ll be okay,’ said Rose. ‘The other guy let loose with a shotgun first. Kev was lucky he didn’t get a face full of shot.’
‘He and Stu are up for commendations,’ said Sutherland.
Rose stared out of the window, tight-lipped. If only he hadn’t driven down the road at the moment Marsden had been attacked, he would never have told him about the Harlesden job or taken him to see Swift. They’d have recruited someone else and done the second job, Kelly would have flown to Chicago and everything would have been all right. Now it was turning to shit. Unless he did something fast he was going to prison and his daughter would die.
Rose had replayed his conversation with Swift and Marsden over and over in his head as he sat in the front seat of the ARV. He and Swift had confessed to everything – the robbery, disposing of Ormsby’s body, the Dublin drugs deal. They’d told him about their guns. It was open and shut.
‘Commendations don’t mean shit,’ said Bamber.
‘Yeah, that’s what Stu said.’ Sutherland laughed.
Rose and Swift had spent fifteen minutes before their shift working out their options. That they hadn’t already been busted by IIC meant that the powers-that-be were waiting for something. Marsden’s evidence plus the gun would be all that was needed to file charges against them both, so the fact that they hadn’t already been arrested meant that IIC wanted more. Marsden hadn’t been wearing a wire, so maybe that was what they wanted: he would try to get them to confess on tape. Maybe he’d even get them to talk about the next job. If that was so they had a few days’ grace, a few days in which to dig themselves out of the shit they were in. They could get rid of the guns. Rose could dismantle them, screw up the barrels so that they’d get no usable forensics, then throw away the pieces where hopefully they’d never be found. They’d have to make sure they weren’t being followed. It had been a big mistake telling Marsden where Ormsby was buried. The alarm bells should have rung when he’d asked where they’d put the body, but he’d seemed so bloody reasonable. He was a cop, for God’s sake, an undercover cop, and they hadn’t spotted what he was up to. Rose gritted his teeth.
They’d have to dig up the body and move it. Rose wasn’t looking forward to that. He wasn’t looking forward to any of it. The money would have to go, too. There was no way he could pay for Kelly’s operation now, not without showing out. The best he could do was sit on the money until after he’d retired, and by then K
elly would be dead. Rose stamped on the thought. No way was he going to let his daughter die.
He took a deep breath. Sutherland flashed him a sideways look. ‘This vest is killing me today,’ Rose said. ‘Must be putting on weight.’
‘Take the plate out,’ suggested Sutherland.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ said Rose, but he left it where it was.
So, they got rid of the guns, moved the body and took care of the money. What then? They already had cast-iron alibis for the night of the Harlesden robbery. Without a recording of the conversation that had taken place on Swift’s balcony, it would be Marsden’s word against theirs. Two cops against one. They could try to pass it off as a joke, claim they were just pulling the new guy’s leg. That would leave Swift in the clear, but Rose’s situation was more complicated. There had been the drugs deal in Dublin. He’d used his own car to cross the water. And the biggest problem was what had happened on Thursday night: the shoot-out. One man dead and two in hospital. That was the part that made no sense to Rose. If Marsden, or whoever he really was, was an undercover cop, then why had those three guys driven down from Manchester to kill him? And if Marsden’s bosses had heard about the shoot-out, why hadn’t he been pulled out? The big question, the one that Swift and he still had to deal with, was what to do with Stuart Marsden.
Major Gannon strode into the Management Information and Communications Centre. He was carrying his grey metal sat-phone case. Two uniformed officers were behind him and Commander Roberts brought up the rear. ‘Who’s in command here?’ shouted Gannon.
A uniformed inspector in shirtsleeves stood up at a workstation. ‘Who are you?’ asked the inspector.
‘I’m the guy with a direct line to the prime minister, and as of now I’m in charge,’ said Gannon. ‘Major Gannon, SAS. I need you to do exactly as I say over the next few minutes.’ He looked up at a large clock on the wall behind the inspector’s desk. It was four thirty-one.
Commander Roberts flashed his warrant card at the BTP inspector. ‘Roberts, Anti-terrorist Squad,’ he said. ‘Just follow Major Gannon’s instructions.’
Gannon swung his sat phone on to the BTP inspector’s desk and held up his hands. There were some twenty men and women in the control room, all wearing headsets and each facing three flat computer screens. Most were talking into their microphones but all were looking at Gannon.
‘Would you all please stop what you are doing, right now?’ Gannon shouted. ‘No matter who you’re talking to, cut them off.’
Most of the officers did as Gannon said but some continued to talk. Gannon waved at the uniformed officers who had arrived with him. They walked over to those who were talking and unplugged their headsets.
‘As of now we are dealing with a category-one emergency,’ said Gannon. ‘This has priority over everything else until I tell you otherwise. You will not answer the phones, you will not deal with any other enquiries. I can tell you that a man wearing a vest full of high explosive has been found on the pavement in Brixton with a map of the tube, and we believe that King’s Cross station was the intended target.’
The inspector’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘It’s unlikely that King’s Cross would have been the only target, which means we have to assume that there are other person-borne explosive devices heading towards others.’ Gannon smiled grimly. ‘That’s what we call suicide bombers these days – person-borne explosive devices. I want every CCTV camera on the tube system checked now. We are looking for Arabs wearing bulky clothing, or anyone who looks suspicious.’
‘You can’t—’ began the inspector.
Gannon silenced him by pointing a finger at his face. ‘If you say “can’t”, “won’t” or “shouldn’t” to me again, one of the men with me will throw you through that window over there, and I don’t care what floor we’re on. You will listen to me, you will answer my questions and you will carry out my orders, because if you don’t a lot of people will die. Are we clear?’
The blood had drained from the inspector’s face. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good man. I need you to contact the manager of every station on the Underground system and tell them to send their staff to the platforms. If they spot anyone suspicious they are to radio in here and notify you. We will then view the person on your CCTV screens. Got that?’
The inspector nodded.
‘How many stations are there on the system?’
‘Two hundred and eighty-seven,’ said the inspector.
Gannon did a quick calculation in his head. Even if each call could be completed in a minute, it would still take one man almost five hours to contact every station. They would have to split the workload. There were twenty officers here. Even with all of them on the case, it would still take about fifteen minutes. ‘Split your officers into teams and divide the stations between them. Cover the ones with mainline terminals first.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gannon pointed at the BTP sergeant who had been sitting to the inspector’s right. ‘Show me how this equipment works,’ he said, and sat in the inspector’s chair. ‘Get me one of those headsets.’
Rose looked at Sutherland. ‘I wouldn’t mind a coffee, Mike,’ he said.
Before Sutherland could say anything, the main set burst into life. ‘MP to all Trojan units. Possible Operation Rolvenden in Central London, location unspecified. All Trojan units to report to nearest mainline rail station and await further instructions.’
Sutherland frowned. ‘That’s a bit bloody vague,’ he said.
‘Ours not to reason why,’ said Rose. ‘What would our nearest station be?’
Sutherland looked across at his visual display.
‘Six of one,’ he said. ‘Victoria, Charing Cross. Waterloo if you want to cross the water. They’re all five minutes away, max.’
‘Victoria,’ said Rose. ‘I can get a decent coffee there.’ He picked up the main set microphone. ‘Trojan Five Six Nine, en route to Victoria Station.’
Shepherd’s earpiece crackled. It was the female control officer at the Management Information and Communications Centre. She sounded blonde and thirtyish but that might have been Shepherd’s imagination in overdrive.
‘PC Marsden, please switch channels to three-seven.’
‘Will do,’ said Shepherd, but that was easier said than done with the radio in the small of his back. He got up and walked to the far end of the platform where there were fewer passengers and retuned it to channel thirty-seven. ‘Marsden receiving,’ he said, into his cuff.
‘Bloody hell, Spider, you said you were in deep cover but I didn’t think you meant going underground literally.’
‘Major?’ said Shepherd. ‘Where are you?’
‘The BTP control centre. I asked what resources they had in play and when they said they had a couple of SO19 officers undercover I asked for a description and put two and two together.’
‘No one can hear you, can they?’ asked Shepherd.
‘I’ve got one of those headsets on and everyone’s working so hard they don’t have time to eavesdrop on me,’ said Gannon. ‘At four twenty-four today a suicide bomber was found on a Brixton street, knifed. He was on his way to King’s Cross and we know he was looking to detonate at about five. If he was alone, all well and good and we’ve had a narrow escape, but if there are others the chances are they’ll be primed to go off at the same time, a few minutes either way at most.’
Shepherd was hardly able to believe what he was hearing. He looked at his watch. It was four thirty-five.
‘We’re checking CCTV cameras and station staff are checking their platforms. Where are you now?’
‘Piccadilly Circus,’ said Shepherd.
‘We think mainline stations are the most likely targets, followed by intersections. Have a look around. And forget all that PC crap spouted by the civil libertarians. We’re not looking for ninety-year-old Catholic nuns. You know the profile.’
‘Got you,’ said Shepherd.
Two middle-aged women were s
taring at Shepherd. He walked past them, scanning the faces of the passengers waiting for the next train. He knew the profile. Young, male and Muslim. Middle Eastern or Asian. Late teens a possibility. Twenties most likely. Thirties and above, possible but unlikely. Wearing clothing capable of hiding explosives.
Blinking or staring. And as the deadline drew closer, probably muttering phrases from the Qur’a¯n.
Malik stood up, even though there were empty seats in the carriage. The raincoat looked fine as long as he was standing but if he sat down the vest would press against the coat and somebody might notice the outline of the blocks of explosive.
The train stopped at Oxford Circus and half a dozen people got off. Two Japanese tourists got on, clutching a street directory and peering at the route map above the doors. The man was wearing a Burberry golfing hat and squinted at Malik. ‘Baker Street?’ he asked.
Malik tried to ignore the man.
‘Baker Street?’ repeated the Japanese.
Malik forced himself to smile. ‘You need to go north.’
‘North?’ repeated the man. He looked at his wife. ‘North?’
The doors clunked shut and the train lurched towards the tunnel. Several of the seated passengers were looking at Malik, waiting to see what he would say next. Malik swallowed. He wasn’t supposed to be noticed. He was supposed to move unseen through the crowds until he detonated the explosives.
He tapped the Bakerloo Line map. ‘This is Oxford Circus. You’re going south. Baker Street is here. You need to go north.’
The man’s frown deepened and he spoke to his wife in rapid Japanese. More faces were turning to watch.
‘You need to get off at the next station,’ added Malik. ‘Piccadilly Circus. Then find the platform for northbound trains. Bakerloo Line. North. Okay?’
‘North. Thank you.’
A couple of teenagers in combat trousers and camouflage-patterned coats were whispering and smirking. Malik fought to keep calm. It didn’t matter who saw him. At precisely five o’clock he would press the button that would activate the bomb that would send him to heaven and take with him dozens if not hundreds of infidels. He looked across at the teenagers. Maybe they would get off at Charing Cross. Maybe they would be on the platform at five o’clock. He hoped so. Malik smiled. It was all going to be just fine.
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