by L J Morris
As soon as the police attempt to enter the house had failed, Butler knew it was only a matter of time until the rest of his team arrived. The counter-terrorist team were based at SAS headquarters at Credenhill, near Hereford. They had practised assaults like this time and time again, until it had become second nature. This was the time when that practice would pay off.
Butler had been sent ahead to liaise with the police and other civilian authorities, but at the same time he was preparing for the order that was now inevitable. The order that would send them into action. He had surveyed the lay of the land and the layout of the house, spoken to neighbours, and photographed the house from every angle. He now knew more about Rock Cottage than many of the people who lived in the area.
Butler opened the back doors of the blue Transit van he had parked beside the wall, and waited for his team by the gate. ‘Good to see you, lads. Pile in, the farm’s just a mile up the road.’
The men loaded their bags into the back of the van and climbed in. Butler got in the front and started the engine, pulling away just as a car full of reporters and photographers appeared around the bend. The car skidded to a halt at the gate and the photographers jumped out, cameras at the ready, but all they got was a view of the van driving off and the helicopter disappearing into the fog.
McGill stood at the front window. He had opened it slightly and had his ear to the two-inch gap. ‘There was definitely a chopper out there, sounded like it landed for a few minutes then took off again. Can’t hear it any more. If I was a bettin’ man, I’d say the blades have just arrived.’
Sinclair sat in the kitchen cleaning her weapon. It didn’t really need it, it was something she did, almost absent-mindedly, to pass the time and relax her mind – like popping bubble wrap. ‘You really think they’ll send them in?’
‘As far as they’re concerned, we’re terrorists with a hostage and potentially some nerve agent. We’ve already repelled the police attempt to storm the building, special forces are the next step up. The SAS are the kind of people who would be brought here by helicopter.’
Hadley shifted nervously in his chair. ‘Wouldn’t now be a good time to negotiate your surrender?’
McGill looked at the radio in the centre of the table. It had been silent for more than two hours. ‘I don’t think they’re interested in us giving up any more, we’re a hopeless case. Let’s face it, if we did walk out of here, Vadim would have us locked up and killed later, at his leisure.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘He tried to kill Ali enough times when she was in Mexico. You could say he’s got form.’
Hadley raised one hand towards the door. ‘I could leave. I could go and talk to them, explain what happened, they’ll listen to me.’
‘I’ve told you already, you have no evidence. If we give up, we’ll be arrested and put on remand to wait for our trial. Even if the evidence came to light in court, it still gives Vadim months to finish us off.’
Hadley held out both arms, pleading. ‘At least let me go before they come in. I don’t want to die in the crossfire.’
McGill shook his head. ‘You’re not going to die in any crossfire. They think you’re a hostage, their job is to get you out of here unharmed, and they are very good at what they do.’
Sinclair finished cleaning her Glock and slid it into her shoulder holster. ‘Maybe we could push him out of the door before the shooting starts?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve seen those lads assault a building and kill all the terrorists without even messing up the hostages’ hair. He’ll be fine.’
Hadley wandered to the kitchen, shaking his head. ‘You’re both mad.’
Sinclair took a step towards McGill, lowering her voice. ‘I know you, Frank. With all the defences you’ve put in, you must have planned a way out of here.’
McGill looked at the basement door. ‘There’s an old tunnel down there, been there for decades. I don’t know what it was for, but it comes up in the barn. It won’t help us, though, we wouldn’t make it off the hill without being seen. Anyway, I’m not running. I’d rather go down swinging.’
Sinclair nodded. ‘Me too. I’m not going back inside again.’
Hadley was listening: McGill and Sinclair weren’t being as quiet as they thought. All he had to do was distract them, and he could be through the tunnel and away. He put his hand in his trousers and adjusted the phone he had tucked into the front of his boxers – the one he had pretended to throw out of the car window at the airfield. One phone call was all it would take, that was his way out.
* * *
The SAS team had taken over the police command and control vehicle and were now listening to the brief from their troop commander. Mick Butler took them through the likely scenarios for the assault. ‘One team at the front entrance and one at the back. We’ll blow the doors and go with CS and stun grenades. We know McGill has the place rigged with non-lethal booby traps so look out for them, and keep your heads down when we’re waiting to breach.’
One of the men raised his hand. ‘Do we have any plans for the place, Mick? Give us an idea of the layout?’
Butler shook his head. ‘This place was built by hill farmers nearly two hundred years ago, they didn’t use plans, they just built it. It’s never had any planning permission submitted for the main house, so we don’t have plans from there, either.’
‘Could make things interestin’. We expectin’ any surprises in the house?’
Butler pressed a button on a remote, turning on a screen behind him. He clicked through photo after photo of the house, covering every possible position for booby traps and ambushes. He took the team through the best places to launch the assault from, and how they would enter the house. ‘I’ve spoken to the locals and they’ve given me an idea of the basic layout inside.’
On a whiteboard next to the screen, Butler had drawn a plan of Rock Cottage. ‘The footprint of the house is L-shaped. The main entrance leads into a kitchen or main living area. The back entrance opens onto a corridor that has rooms off it. We expect them to be in the main room. We have no idea how up to date these descriptions are, and McGill could have completely remodelled the inside of the house, but it’s the best we’ve got.’
‘Who are they, Mick? What do we know about them? Are they ideological, lookin’ for a cause to die for, or are they likely to crumble under fire?’
Butler picked up the remote again. Various photographs of Sinclair and McGill appeared on the screen. ‘These two are definitely professionals, be in no doubt about that. McGill is an ex-shaky, so he’s had very similar training to our boat squadron. He’s got a hell of a reputation in the SF community.’
Another man nodded. ‘I worked with him once, seemed like a good bloke.’
Butler pointed at the screen. ‘Sinclair is ex-intelligence and SRR. We trained her at Hereford. She shouldn’t be underestimated.’
‘They don’t sound like the usual targets we come up against.’
Butler ensured the door was closed and no one could overhear them. ‘To be honest, lads, I’ve checked up on them both, and I don’t like it. There’s somethin’ not right about all this.’
‘What do you mean, Mick?’
‘I met Sinclair in a hanger in Rammstein, a short while back, before we went to Syria. She was definitely mixed up with spooks and didn’t seem like the kind of person who’d suddenly go rogue.’
Some of the men exchanged glances. ‘You think this is a set up?’
Butler paused. ‘I need to make sure we’ve got the go-ahead from the COBRA Committee before we go in. I don’t trust the copper that’s running this thing at all.’
‘What do we do?’
‘We do what we’re told, when we’re told. We might not like it, but it’s our job.’
DCS Thorpe stood outside the door of the command vehicle. He didn’t like being told to leave; it was his operation and he should be in there. He dialled the Home Secretary’s phone number. ‘They’re here, they kicked me
out of the briefing room. I’m supposed to be in charge, I should—’
‘Shut up and listen.’ Enfield was in no mood to listen to Thorpe’s shit. ‘I’m leaving London and heading north. Do not tell anyone where I am, got it?’
‘Yes, sir, of course. You can trust—’
Enfield cut him off again. ‘What I want, is Sinclair and McGill dead and that folder in my hands. Do you understand?’
This time Thorpe didn’t respond, he didn’t want to be cut off again.
‘THORPE.’
Thorpe almost dropped the phone. ‘Yes, sir. I … I understand. I’ll do whatever … Hello?’
The Home Secretary had hung up.
Thorpe was beginning to think he should walk away from all this. He should take the money he had saved and leave the country. If he wasn’t such a bloody coward, that’s exactly what he would do. ‘Fuck.’
Inside the vehicle, Butler was wrapping up his briefing. ‘Be ready for the unexpected, lads, there could be anything in there.’
The men filed out of the vehicle, past DCS Thorpe. The looks they gave him left Thorpe in no doubt that he had somehow made their shit list. He waited a few seconds before going up the steps to the door. ‘I need a word.’
Butler had removed all his briefing material: the screen was blank and the whiteboard had been wiped. ‘What is it, Superintendent?’
‘It’s detective chief superintendent. My job may not be as glamorous as yours, but I think I deserve some respect.’
Butler raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ll get my respect when you’ve earned it. Now, if you’ve got something to say, get on with it.’
Thorpe wanted to tell Butler what he thought of him, but his lack of spine stopped him. ‘I wanted to tell you that the Home Secretary has given the initial go-ahead for you to go into the house and kill the terrorists.’
Butler stepped towards Thorpe, their faces inches apart. ‘When the time comes, I’ll decide whether we assault the house. I will only make that decision when I get the approval of the COBRA Committee, or the Home Secretary himself, directly. I won’t be taking any messages through you.’
Thorpe puffed out his chest and stood straight. He was taller than Butler and for a fleeting moment was feeling brave. ‘I’m the silver commander of this operation. You’ll do what I say.’
Butler stared and said nothing until Thorpe had visibly shrunk back into his spineless shell. ‘Back off, dickhead, you’re out of your depth.’
Thorpe’s heart was pounding. He had Enfield threatening to kill him on one side, and Butler, who looked like he was about to beat him to death, staring him down on the other. Thorpe knew he was beaten, he knew he didn’t have the bottle for this. He looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, then turned around and left the vehicle.
Chapter 50
The Queen Victoria Veterans Hospital wasn’t part of the National Health Service, but it wasn’t a private hospital, either. It had been established after the Crimean War and was now run by a charity. The hospital provided care, treatment and support for members of the armed forces who were suffering from life-changing injuries, both physical and mental. After the terrorist attack on the hotel in Geneva, survivors who still needed care had been moved to the hospital’s top floor. In the days and weeks following the attack, fortunately, they had all been sent home to convalesce. Only the Prime Minister remained.
Edward Lancaster and Simeon Carter approached the hospital in the back of a military ambulance, which had cost them a lot of favours. Carter, or General Carter as they were now passing him off as, was lying on the stretcher, covered with blankets and wearing an oxygen mask. The doctor with him, Colonel Lancaster, was wearing military uniform, rubber gloves, and a stethoscope. It probably wouldn’t have passed intense scrutiny, but it was the best they could do at short notice.
At the wheel of the ambulance was one of Lancaster’s most trusted officers. Victoria Thomson had a wealth of experience in the field. She started her career as an army nurse, but her intellect and talent for languages soon brought her to the attention of the intelligence corps. After her training she was pushed into some of the world’s worst trouble spots, and was a natural. It was only a matter of time before MI6 came calling.
Thomson had worked for Lancaster since her first days in the service. He was the one who sent her on her missions and it would be him who looked after her when it all went wrong.
Deployed to Afghanistan to convince the tribal elders in Helmand Province that the British Army were there to help them, she was able to gather more intel than any other officer in the region. She was a rising star of the intelligence community and had begun to believe too much in her own invincibility. When she started taking risks, the Taliban were waiting.
Thomson was kidnapped and held for ransom, a ransom that the UK government refused to pay. She was held for months. Tortured and beaten, she was regularly paraded in front of cameras and threatened with beheading. She was broken: her mind, her body, her soul; she lost all hope.
Eight months after her abduction, a US Marine Corps unit, carrying out a raid on a Taliban stronghold, found a dishevelled, malnourished and dehydrated woman chained to the wall in a darkened room. It was only when they’d given her water and cleaned off some of the dried blood covering her face, they realised she was a westerner.
When she got home she was in pieces. Lancaster was there for her. He made sure she got the best of medical care. Her body still bore the scars of her ordeal, but she had recovered her health. Her mind, on the other hand, was a different matter. The psychiatrists did what they could and the medication helped, but she was still prone to bouts of depression and anxiety, which she sometimes treated with alcohol. Some in the service wanted her pensioned off – put out to pasture, a wounded hero, but Lancaster wouldn’t have it. He kept her on, kept her working, kept her sane.
Thomson was fiercely loyal to Lancaster. When he had asked her to put on her old uniform and drive an ambulance, she hadn’t even asked why. Now she was pulling into the car park of the Queen Victoria, preparing to break through the Prime Minister’s security. It was good to be back in the game.
The ambulance stopped at the hospital’s entrance and Thomson climbed through to the back. ‘Okay, guys, remember, if you act like you belong somewhere, people will just assume that you do.’
Carter pulled the oxygen mask away from his mouth. ‘I’ll just keep my eyes closed, let you deal with the medical questions, Edward.’
Thomson put the mask back in place. ‘I’ll answer the medical questions, Simeon. Edward, you just look concerned about our patient.’
Lancaster nodded. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
Thomson opened the back doors. ‘Let’s go.’
They pushed the stretcher out of the ambulance and up the ramp to the entrance. Thomson returned to close the ambulance doors then followed Lancaster into the hospital.
Thomson was right: no one questioned them at all. No one asked them who they were or even gave them a second glance. They walked straight past reception and into the lift. Lancaster pressed the button for the top floor and the doors closed.
The top floor of the Queen Victoria had eight rooms. Each one was fully equipped to care for patients with a variety of conditions; from recovery from minor operations, right up to full life-support, the necessary equipment could be wheeled in and hooked up. Each patient’s status could be monitored from the nurses station, which was positioned halfway along the floor’s main corridor, and any alarms reacted to quickly.
When the lift doors opened, Lancaster and Thomson pushed the stretcher to the right, along to the far end of the corridor, into the room farthest away from the Prime Minister’s room.
The duty nurse came out from behind the nurses station and followed them. ‘Excuse me?’
Carter was lying on the hospital bed and Lancaster was standing beside him with a clipboard in his hand, writing notes on the form clipped to its front. Thomson stood to one side of the door.
The du
ty nurse walked up to the bed. ‘Excuse me, doctor, I wasn’t expecting any admissions this evening.’
Lancaster took off his glasses. ‘Good evening,’ he looked at the nurse’s name tag, ‘Deborah. This is General Carter, he’s an emergency case. We need to monitor his vitals and prep him for surgery tomorrow.’
The nurse hesitated. It wasn’t unusual to get an unexpected admission, but something wasn’t right about this doctor. She knew all the doctors who worked at the clinic and he wasn’t one of them. She had to check on this, or at least let someone know what was happening. She turned towards the door.
Thomson raised her hand, the silenced pistol levelled at Deborah’s head. ‘Don’t panic, Deborah, we aren’t here to hurt anyone, especially not you. We just need you to stay calm and quiet, can you do that for me?’
Deborah nodded, scared out of her wits.
Carter removed the oxygen mask and got off the bed. ‘I think you can lower the weapon now, Vicky. Deborah isn’t going to give us any trouble.’
Thomson stepped back and checked along the corridor. No one was paying any attention to what they were doing. If any of the guards had noticed them, they were assuming everything was above board. ‘Okay, we’re looking good so far.’
Deborah was lying on the bed, Carter had tied her hands and feet. ‘That’s not too tight for you, is it?’
The nurse shook her head.
Carter took a length of bandage and used it to gag her. ‘Can you breathe okay?’
She nodded.
‘Good. We’ll come back and let you go as soon as we can.’ He smiled to reassure her. ‘I’m sorry about this, but it’s something we have to do. You’ll understand when it’s over.’
Lancaster and Thomson walked down the corridor and past the nurses station. Lancaster carried a clipboard and they appeared to be deep in conversation. As they neared the Prime Minister’s room, the guard in the corridor stood up. ‘Stop where you are, I’ll need to see some ID.’
