Carver

by Tom Cain

  ‘So there is some kind of buffer-zone around the place?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll show you …’ Holloway walked to a wall of his office, on which was a large, framed Ordnance Survey map of the refinery and its surroundings. The plant had been sited on a headland. It was criss-crossed with streets whose names revealed the American origins of the refinery’s parent company: First, Second, Third and Fourth Avenues intersecting with Refinery Street, State Street and Ocean Drive.

  ‘As you can see,’ Holloway said, ‘almost two-thirds of the perimeter of the plant backs directly on to the sea, and we own all the land between the furthest storage tanks and the water. The coastline here is pretty rocky. There’s anywhere between thirty and fifty feet of cliff for most of the way around. I’ve got people patrolling the cliff tops, and there’s a couple of boats offshore, keeping an eye on things. Facing the other way, we’ve got all the land within around seven to eight hundred metres of the perimeter fence.’ He ran his finger around the limit of the refinery’s land. ‘Everything inside that line we searched earlier. If anyone’s there, all I can say is they’re bloody well hidden.’

  For the first time since he’d arrived, Carver spoke: ‘But you didn’t patrol outside your actual property?’

  Holloway gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Look, there’s a limit, you know? I’ve had this dumped on me from on high, and I’m doing the best I can.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Shit! … The VIPs are due here any minute, and I’ve got to make sure we’ve got everything ready. One of the ministers wants to make an opening statement to the media, and his people say he has to stand right by the distillation columns. They want powerful pictures for the TV. So can I leave you gentlemen to get on with, well … whatever you want to do?’

  ‘I think we’ll tag along, if that’s all right with you,’ Tyrrell said. ‘Come on, Sergeant … and Jenkins?’

  ‘Give me a minute,’ said Carver. ‘I just want to take another look at this map.’

  He watched the others leave the room, then turned his attention back to the refinery layout, and the land around it. Why was Zorn making such an issue of energy terrorism? Did he know something no one else did – did he have advance warning, perhaps, of a planned outrage? ‘Well, then,’ Carver thought, running with the idea. ‘Suppose he were attacking a refinery – this one, for example – what would he do?’

  One option was to come in from the sea. Carver could get past Holloway’s boat and foot patrols without too much trouble. He’d once beaten the combined forces of the US Coast Guard and Secret Service to attack the President’s seaside holiday compound. But then the target had been a single individual, not a giant industrial installation. So how much damage could he do here? There was a limit to the amount of explosive anyone could haul up a cliff-face. A few well-placed C4 charges would certainly make a hell of a bang, but they’d struggle to do the kind of serious, long-term damage that sent a message no one would be able to ignore. For that you’d need a lot more explosive, and that meant some form of transport, either by land or by air.

  Well, if anyone really wanted to recreate 9/11 with a death-dive into an oil refinery or nuclear power station there was not a lot Carver could do about it. So what about a truck-bomb? It would have to get past the roadblocks. And even though a truck could deliver a massive amount of explosive, it only delivered it to one place and made one very big hole. But the refinery covered a huge area. It could surely survive a single bomb, no matter how big.

  No, the way to attack a place like this was to mount some kind of spectacular: hit it more than once. An image came to his mind of black and white film from the Second World War – Russian ‘Katyusha’ rocket launchers, mounted on the back of trucks, blasting a fusillade of projectiles at the German lines. Like so many Russian weapons, Katyushas were very basic, very brutal and very easy to copy.

  He looked at the map again. If he had a rocket launcher, where would he put it?

  There weren’t too many options. Anyone using home-made devices would want them as close as possible to the refinery, without actually getting on to its own, well-defended, regularly patrolled property. They’d also need cover behind which to hide: trees, walls, even low hills. But there didn’t look to be much of anything near the refinery. The land was flat, with only the odd copse of trees marked on the map, and virtually all the buildings in the area fell within the refinery’s property. There was just one farm close by whose buildings might fit the criteria Carver had set himself.

  He walked around Holloway’s desk, sat by his computer, and called up a satellite picture of the area. He zoomed in on the farm, frowning as he peered at the screen. The buildings seemed unoccupied, even derelict. One was missing its roof. Even from the aerial shot it was obvious that the farmyard was overgrown, the stone or tarmac long since lost beneath a cover of vegetation. Well, if he were going to launch anything, Carver thought, that’s where he’d do it from. He looked at the broken-down buildings for a few more seconds. ‘Yes, that’s the place,’ he muttered to himself. And then he, too, left the room.

  45

  * * *

  Mid-air, en route to Rosconway

  THE TWO AUGUSTA Power Elite helicopters packed with VIPs took off six minutes late, but the pilots put the hammer down and made up time along the way. ‘Don’t worry, everyone, we’re going to arrive bang on time,’ the RAF lieutenant at the controls of the lead craft assured his passengers. Nikki Wilkins passed the news on to her colleagues on the ground.

  ‘This could get interesting,’ she was told. ‘We’re still a couple of TV crews short. Channel Four News should make it in time, but God only knows where the missing BBC lot have got to.’

  ‘Do you want us to slow down, then?’ Wilkins asked.

  ‘No. Get here on time. You’re due at ten forty, right?’

  ‘That’s the time I was given, yes.’

  ‘Right then, let’s try to stick to the schedule if we possibly can. If the BBC don’t get their own pictures, that’s their problem. They’ll just have to take a feed from someone else.’

  ‘What’s it like there, though – apart from all the madness? You think this is going to work?’

  ‘Well, that depends … if the TV people all turn up, and if there isn’t some God-awful cock-up, this is a great place to do it. You’ve got this huge industrial complex – you know, all steel and concrete and flaming chimneys – set against this stunning coastline. And the weather looks pretty good. Plenty of blue sky, fluffy clouds, bright sunshine. I think we’re going to get some spectacular pictures.’

  ‘That sounds great,’ said Nikki Wilkins. ‘Full speed ahead!’

  46

  * * *

  Wentworth

  MALACHI ZORN HAD been unable to contact Nicholas Orwell during his helicopter journey. The total embargo preventing anyone revealing the location of the conference or reporting from the Rosconway refinery applied even to ex-Prime Ministers. But that embargo ended at 10.25 a.m. Immediately reporters began filing their first scene-setting stories via TV camera, microphone, mobile phone and laptop. They described the awesome scale of the refinery, the hubbub of the hastily improvised conference, and the status of the people who would be attending. This, it was agreed, was a remarkable response by the Prime Minister, and though critics would surely be quick to suggest that he was showing signs of panic (Opposition politicians and spokespeople, glued to their TV screens, immediately began drafting precisely such suggestions), there could be no getting away from the speed and seriousness of his actions.

  Zorn was, as always, tracking the news channels. It took him a few seconds to grasp what he was seeing. ‘Of all the oil joints, in all the countries, in all the world, they walk into mine,’ he murmured. He frowned as he digested the reality of what was about to happen. This was going to be what was known as a Black Swan Event, a totally unpredictable occurrence with massive consequences. Except that he, alone of all the world’s investors, actually could predict what was going to happen within the next fifteen mi
nutes.

  The adrenalin started to pump through Zorn’s system, sharpening his mind as it began to process all the possible permutations of events and reactions that could take place over the next few hours. He’d skied black runs, free climbed sheer rock faces without anything but his hands and feet to keep him from falling hundreds of feet, and sailed through storms in the Southern Ocean when the waves had towered over the mast and icebergs had loomed out of the darkness like frozen ghosts. But no fight against the natural elements thrilled him as much as the moments when he took on the market and risked everything he had on his ability to beat the odds.

  Zorn realized that Orwell was in very great, possibly fatal danger. He felt no personal concern whatever for the ex-Prime Minister’s well-being. But Orwell’s death would seriously complicate plans for the rest of the week: though Orwell did not yet know it, a vitally important role had been set aside for him at the Zorn Global launch on Friday evening. There was, though, nothing to be done about that now; even if Zorn had been able to get through to Orwell, it would have been impossible to give him a reason to turn the helicopter around without giving away what was about to happen at Rosconway. So his fate was sealed. And it would, Zorn now realized, be very useful if someone so famous and so closely associated with his fund should be among the casualties. Yes, this was actually an extraordinary stroke of luck.

  Very quickly, and taking even greater than usual care to cover his traces, Zorn did everything he could to increase his exposure in all his most highly leveraged trading positions. He staked his own capital and every last cent that his investors had given him, and did it in such a way that his wins, or his losses, would be many, many times the value of what he had put in.

  As he always did at moments like this, Zorn looked at the picture of his parents that went everywhere with him. ‘OK, Dad, Mom, here we go. I’m going to make them all pay, I promise. I’m so close now … So wish me luck, guys. I’m going all-in.’

  47

  * * *

  Rosconway

  CARVER FOUND TYRRELL and Schultz staring despondently at a podium set up in front of a massive steel column, ringed by gantries and pipes. It looked like a rocket on a launch pad. More columns, chimneys and buildings rose behind it. Massive steel pipes wove between them, and ran past the small open space where the minister would address the media. A crowd of journalists and civil servants milled around, waiting for the show to begin. Willie Holloway, meanwhile, was having a heated argument with a pink-faced young man in a pinstriped suit who seemed unhappy with the positioning of the dais. Carver saw a look of undiluted loathing on Holloway’s face as he caught a braying, arrogant voice declaring, ‘I don’t give a damn about your ridiculous health and safety rules. The minister has to have the optimum backdrop. You’ll just have to move it.’

  The SBS men were no happier. ‘Look at this,’ Schultz moaned, waving in the direction of the columns. ‘Fucking firing positions everywhere. Enough cover to hide a fucking regiment. Even a fucking para could get a shot off before we could stop him.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but I can’t say I disagree,’ Tyrrell said, giving Carver a nod of greeting. ‘How familiar are you with the way these things work?’ he asked.

  ‘I know more about mining and ore extraction.’

  ‘Well, you heat the crude up to about six hundred degrees centigrade, till it vaporizes, then stick the gas in these distillation columns, where it separates into different petrochemicals. They all condense at particular levels of the column: the higher up you go, the finer the product. And here’s the bit that we need to worry about: every one of those petrochemicals has different properties of flammability, explosiveness and toxicity.’

  ‘In simple English, having a bloody great media bunfight at a refinery is like having a barbecue at a fireworks factory,’ said Schultz.

  ‘Well, you lads enjoy the party,’ said Carver. ‘Can I have the keys to the car?’

  ‘Off to the pub, are you, sir?’ asked Schultz, smirking.

  ‘No, just curious about something Holloway and his lads might have missed.’

  Tyrrell frowned. ‘Anything I need to know about?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Carver. ‘Just want to take a look around the area.’

  Tyrrell looked at him searchingly. ‘That’s all you’re doing?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘Well, if you come across anything suspicious, give me a call.’

  ‘Will do … So, the keys?’

  ‘Catch,’ said Snoopy Schultz.

  Carver plucked them from the air one-handed, and headed for the car park.

  48

  * * *

  Blackpole Retail Park, Worcester

  SHORTLY AFTER 10.30 A.M. Uschi Kremer pulled into the parking lot of a McDonald’s restaurant located within a soulless shopping centre on the northern outskirts of Worcester. She had driven hard from Rosconway, cutting across South Wales and up into the English Midlands, avoiding motorways, tolls and the CCTV cameras that came with them.

  ‘You can turn your phones on now,’ she said, oblivious to Brynmor Gryffud’s notional status as group leader. ‘In fact, I think you should use them. Call some friends, or maybe, Bryn, you could check in with your office. Keep it nice and light, everything very normal. OK?’

  ‘I’m bursting for a piss,’ said Smethurst, getting out of the back of the car, closely followed by Gryffud.

  ‘If you guys do that, then make your calls, I will get you some food,’ said Kremer, walking beside them towards the golden arches. She gave them both a cheeky smile. ‘So … you want to go large?’

  ‘Looking at you, love, I’m getting large already,’ Smethurst replied.

  ‘Really? I didn’t notice,’ Kremer said, putting him in his place. ‘So, Bryn, are you hungry?’

  ‘I won’t have anything, thanks,’ said Gryffud. ‘I don’t want to give McDonald’s any money. I don’t approve of their impact on the environment.’

  ‘Oh, fuck off,’ Smethurst sneered. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, you’re about to blow an entire fucking refinery to pieces … and you’re worried about having a Big Mac? You’ll be telling me meat is murder next.’

  ‘He’s right,’ said Kremer, pausing for a moment outside the restaurant door. ‘It is important that we are seen here, a long way from South Wales, acting like ordinary people. Really, if you think about it, this is part of your mission.’

  ‘Well, if you put it like that …’ Gryffud conceded.

  Kremer took their orders, collected and paid for the food, and spent a minute at a side counter, putting milk and sugar in the men’s coffees. It would have taken a very acute observer indeed to notice that two of the miniature plastic pots of milk that she used had not been supplied by the restaurant.

  Back at the BMW she settled into the driver’s seat, then turned to the two men. ‘One Big Mac with large fries for you,’ she said, reaching into a brown paper bag and handing two cartons to Smethurst. ‘And one Big Tasty with bacon and regular fries for you.’

  Gryffud took his food, and then a moment later his cup of coffee. ‘You not having anything?’ he asked Kremer.

  She laughed. ‘And ruin my figure? Never!’

  ‘Good thing I don’t have a figure to ruin, then,’ said Gryffud. ‘I’m starving.’

  The men ripped great bites from their burgers, grabbed fistfuls of fries, and then washed the whole lot down with gulps of scalding coffee. They ate and drank greedily, saying nothing. And then they started gasping for breath as the cyanide that Kremer had slipped into their drinks got to work, shutting down their bodies’ ability to use oxygen, and attacking their hearts and brains. Smethurst, being much the smaller, lighter man, was the first to fall into a coma. Gryffud was able to look imploringly at Kremer and gasp, ‘What have you …?’ before he passed out. Both were dead by the time Kremer had driven out of the parking lot.

  It was now 10.36 a.m.

  49

  * * *

  Ros
conway

  CARVER PULLED INTO the deserted farmyard just before 10.37 a.m., a little under three minutes before Dave Smethurst’s home-made launchers were due to fire their shells at the oil refinery.

  On the way in he passed a long, low brick shed. There was a gaping hole in its roof, about a metre square, as though a meteorite or a cannonball had fallen from the sky and punched its way through the slates. Directly opposite him stood the remains of a traditional farmhouse, flanked on either side by stables, sheds, a small piggery and a large barn. He got out of the car without any great sense of urgency. He didn’t seriously expect, let alone fear, that he would find anything. He just wanted to get a sense of what might be possible. And it was good, too, to get away from the farcical chaos and disorganization of events at the refinery and go somewhere quiet and peaceful where he could think undisturbed.

  He looked around the yard. As his eyes came to rest on the barn, he had to squint into the sun, which was shining directly at him. So it took him a couple of seconds to register that the object just visible inside the derelict building was the front end of a vehicle: a van, by the looks of it. Carver frowned and strode across the yard towards the barn. As he got closer, he could see that it was an old Toyota Hiace camper van.

  Carver’s immediate reaction was embarrassment: he’d stumbled into a place where some holidaymakers were trying to find themselves a little privacy. Maybe he should let them enjoy it. Then he thought, ‘Who wants to go on holiday in the shadow of an oil refinery?’ The number plates caught his eye: they couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years old. But the van looked less up to date: a late-eighties model, even. No innocent holidaymaker drove a car with false plates.

  Now, suddenly, he felt the first small shots of adrenalin coursing through him, tightening his stomach and sharpening his reflexes as he approached the van. The interior was dark, the curtains of the side windows drawn. There was no noise or any other sign of life. Carver walked around to the rear of the vehicle. Something caught his eye. He stepped closer and tilted his head to one side as he looked along the vertical line between the door and the body-panel. It had been welded shut.