by Chris Ryan
Ben took hold of a brace but the elastic was too tight. It twanged out of his hand and disappeared down the inside of the suit. He laughed.
Eva watched him without a flicker of a smile. ‘A lot of people lark about when they put a drysuit on.’
‘Sorry,’ said Ben. He didn’t think he’d ever come across anyone so serious. He tried the braces again and didn’t do any better the second time.
‘You’ve got to pull hard. They’re made to be tough.’
Finally he got them up and Eva zipped up the back of the suit. Now he was in.
He looked at her again, her Marilyn Manson face framed by the hood, and started to giggle. ‘Now we both look like Teletubbies.’
Eva didn’t think that was funny either. ‘At least you’ve got your sense of humour back.’ She said it with a completely straight face, as though she was a scientist observing an experiment.
Ben felt bad that he might have offended her. She had probably saved his life. ‘Thanks’ — he gestured at his strange outfit — ‘thanks for all this.’ He put out his hand. ‘I’m Ben, by the way.’
Eva shook his hand solemnly. ‘Well, Ben, if I hadn’t come along, who knows what would have happened to you.’
‘You seem to know a lot about all this.’
‘I’m a qualified diver. We’re taught to recognize the signs of hypothermia. Your body loses heat fast when you’re wearing wet clothes. Then you start to go wrong, like an old machine. You can’t think straight. You just want to lie down and sleep but that’s the worst thing you can do because you lose heat even faster if you stop moving.’
She seemed to take a peculiar delight in describing these gloomy details. But Ben had to admit that, although she only looked a few years older than he was, she seemed to know her stuff; it was as though she’d been following him with a video camera.
‘It’s not nice, is it?’ he said.
‘No,’ said Eva. ‘I had it once while wreck-diving in Plymouth.’ She started towards the exit. ‘Come on.’
Ben followed her. It was only when he started to move that he realized there was a bulging seam that forced his legs apart like a bandy cowboy’s. Even worse, his shins felt like they were being scraped raw.
He stopped. ‘Eva, are you sure I’ve got this on properly? It hurts.’
Eva barely even glanced back at him. ‘It’s probably the lining. Those ones are a bit sticky at first if you haven’t waxed your legs.’
Sticky wasn’t the word for it. It was like every hair was being pulled out of his skin. Still, it was better than that awful, creeping, deathly cold.
Ben passed another mirror and saw that the suit was light grey across the shoulders and black further down. In the middle of the chest was a valve with a yellow logo around it. There were curious pockets all over the place with nobbles and zips. He looked like Batman, especially with the hood. But he’d better not say so to Eva.
More seriously, though, he realized how much better he was feeling. He’d felt so cold and miserable before.
‘Come on,’ called Eva in a strict voice. ‘You need more fluids.’
She was a bit of a bossy boots, thought Ben. Still, he was grateful for the company. And if she hadn’t come along, he might still be in the doorway, sinking into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Francisco reached Trafalgar Square. He entered at the top, by the columns of the National Gallery. The water lapped along the tarmac at the bottom edge. Nelson looked out sadly over the flood.
He walked past St Martin-in-the-Fields and saw the station on the other side of the road: Charing Cross.
But then he saw that the station was surrounded by water.
Still, water or not, he had to get in. At least that might mean he’d have the place to himself.
He crossed the road and got as close to the station as he could to assess the situation. The forecourt had an in-and-out drive, bounded by a set of iron railings. They would do.
He launched himself into the water. The current swept him along with surprising power, but Francisco had calculated well. He grabbed the railings. The current tried to pull him away and the tyre iron clipped to his belt dragged him down, but he clung on.
Without letting go, he put his feet down. The water was nearly up to his waist. Holding onto the railings, he began to work his way along. Each step he took, he felt with his feet first. He knew there could be dangers lurking in the water. He felt the smooth pavement under his feet change to the cobbles of the forecourt. He reached the end of the railings, where the exit to the forecourt was.
The station entrance was opposite him now, a series of arches about twenty metres away. It would be good if he could let go and the current could swoosh him through one of those arches like a football into a goal. But judging by the wrappers and rubbish swirling past him, it was running out into Trafalgar Square. If he tried to wade or swim, he would be swept away too.
However, at the end of the forecourt he spotted some cars smashed up against a row of shops, piled up as if in a junkyard. He could use those as handholds.
Francisco reached out for a car on its back like an upturned beetle. His hands caught the filthy underside of its exhaust. It took his weight and he swung onto it, like Tarzan. The exhaust pipe ran up the entire underside of the car and he pulled himself along to the front bumper.
Next was a taxi, which had managed to remain upright. He used its wing mirror to reach the handle-bars of a Suzuki motorbike. Then he moved onto a police car: its open window provided a generous handhold. And then he was in the goalmouth.
It was also under water, but he felt smooth, level tiles under his feet. Within the station the current wasn’t so bad and Francisco stopped to get his breath back.
From that vantage point he took stock. First he checked to make sure there was no one else around. It had become a habit, from long years of doing things and trying to avoid being seen. Right now, though, it would have been good to see his partner José but there was no sign of him. He might as well get on.
Francisco waded over to the red metal left luggage lockers. They’d chosen one on the third rack — at the time this was because it was the least visible to CCTV cameras, but now — luckily it also meant that the contents wouldn’t be ruined.
Francisco’s keys had been confiscated by the police when he was arrested. But it didn’t matter; the tyre iron would do fine. He unhooked it from his belt and edged it into the gap beside the lock. It fitted perfectly.
He levered open the door and started to look through the contents. There was a rucksack and a couple of warm jackets. He threw off his Michelin top and let it float away while he put on one of the jackets from the locker. They were reversible: wear them one way round and they showed distinctive motor racing logos; the other side was a plain colour. That way, if they were spotted, the most likely thing that would be reported was the logo. All they had to do then was switch to the other side and they were incognito again.
The locker also contained a collection of Ordnance Survey maps. Francisco pulled out the ones for Berkshire and Oxfordshire and left the rest. Their best bet was to follow the Thames upstream and disappear into the countryside. He slipped the maps into plastic cases to protect them from the rain.
Next he found the first aid kit and a bottle of Evian water. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth, drank some, then pushed up the sleeves of his jacket and poured a little onto the wounds on his wrists where the handcuffs had been. They had been soaking in that filthy river water for ages and he didn’t want them to go septic. Scabs had begun to form, so he picked them off. It was painful but bleeding was the most natural way to get all the rubbish out of the wounds. He sluiced water over them again, took some antibiotic cream out of the first aid kit and smeared it on. Then he fastened the first aid kit again and put that in the rucksack.
There were other things to pack too. Francisco found the bars of Kendal mint cake, pulled the wrapper off one and ate it there and then. A couple of torches with sp
are batteries. Bolt cutters; two compasses. A sheath knife; a serrated knife. A Second World War knuckleduster knife — an unexpected find while shopping in an army surplus store in north London. It had a vicious steel blade about sixteen centimetres long, and a brass handle in the shape of a knuckleduster; it was a fearsome-looking weapon. He slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket.
Now he was getting to the bottom of the locker and pulled out a small attaché case. The case itself was shielded with metal so that if the contents of the locker were x-rayed they wouldn’t show up. Francisco set the combination to the correct position and the lock sprang open. Inside was £1, 000 in cash in a waterproof zip bag, along with some credit cards and fake passports — and a Beretta 7.6mm pistol. The pistol had been bought with cash from a friend of a friend. Francisco lifted it out of its casing and snapped the ammunition clip into the grip with the heel of his hand.
‘Spare some change, guv’nor?’
Francisco whirled round, his heart thumping. A bedraggled-looking man with the corned-beef complexion of a down-and-out was standing looking at him, wearing the jacket he had discarded. He was also looking at the open locker with the gun case and the cash in the see-through bag.
You’ve seen too much, thought Francisco. He pulled the trigger And the shot echoed around the walls. Pigeons fluttered in the rafters.
The tramp collapsed immediately, face down in the water. He drifted towards Francisco, who nudged him away with his leg. Blood spread out in a cloud from under the white jacket.
Yes, the gun worked fine.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘One of our submarines is on red alert because it has missed its routine all-clear signal. We are dealing with the situation — there’s a Nimrod jet on its way out there — but we thought you needed to be informed.’
The Chief Commissioner and General Chambers watched the faces on the screen digest the news. They had called a meeting of all the senior personnel in the bunker. Civil servants from the Ministry of Defence were crowded into the briefing room, along with Sidney Cadogan and Clive Brooks from the Department of the Environment. The Foreign Secretary was there, and that noisy woman Bel Kelland was still there too.
Madeleine Harwood was the first to speak. She was furious. This had been the worst day of her life as a politician, ever. First she’d had to authorize the shutting down of Rebro, then give the go-ahead to the military to use whatever force necessary — including firearms — to deal with looters, and now it looked like she was having to deal with a potentially very serious international incident. As Foreign Secretary, however, this was clearly within her portfolio and she felt on firmer ground responding. ‘It’s ridiculous that in this day and age this sort of thing can happen,’ she snapped. ‘We have safeguards and protocols.’
General Chambers had expected something like this. That was why he and the Chief had set up their end of the link in a private office, away from the emergency control room.
‘We do have protocols, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘They were set by Whitehall.’
Madeleine Harwood rounded on a woman sitting next to her with blue-rimmed glasses and a severe suit. ‘I want an internal inquiry.’
‘So do I,’ snapped the woman. ‘But until it makes its report, I don’t think you should be pointing the finger of blame.’
The General tried to bring the meeting back to the subject in hand. They could bicker all they wanted once he’d said what he needed to say, but if they did it now they were wasting precious satellite time.
The Chief Commissioner sat behind him, his arms folded, his head down. This meeting wasn’t his territory; he was just an impartial observer.
‘The situation is a cause for concern,’ said General Chambers, ‘but as long as the submarine follows its standing orders, it will get the message to stand down.’
Bel had been listening, her sharp chin resting on a folded arm. Now she sat up. ‘So if one transistor fails somewhere — in the satellite or in the sub or at your end — we’ve got an international crisis. That’s great.’
‘Dr Kelland,’ said the woman in the severe suit, ‘there are a million failsafes in our systems. And I’d like to remind you this is classified information and—’
Bel shook her head, her pale blue eyes narrowed as she interrupted her. ‘Don’t you get it? One day it will fail. This flood has caused a million tiny bits of chaos today. Only one of them has to get out of control and who knows what might happen?’
General Chambers stood up and cut the video link. The screen went blank. ‘We’ve done our bit. I think we can just leave them to it,’ he told the Chief Commissioner.
* * *
Dorek took the Puma down low. Meena, resting her head against the window, saw fields rush up towards her, then a small town, its buildings and streets completely dark. Traffic crept along its roads like ants. Dorek took them in a quick circle, the Puma tilting at forty-five degrees, then rose nearly vertically.
Meena held onto her stomach. ‘Dorek, do we have to do this? You’re flying like a demented bee.’
‘It’s a search pattern,’ he told her.
Meena leaned her head against the window again. Headphones snaked out from under her green helmet. Her mobile had a radio and she had found a programme that wasn’t sending out emergency broadcasts. It was a phone-in programme in French, which she spoke fluently. It made peculiar listening.
The host was cajoling listeners to call in with their views on the topic of the day — which was the disaster in London. It seemed like the French public were letting their imaginations run riot.
‘What will happen to the stock market? New York and Tokyo won’t have been able to do anything — the world economy will collapse. We should all be very worried about our pensions.’
‘The stock market will be moved out of London to Paris,’ said another caller confidently.
Phil’s voice on the headset inside the helmet drowned out the French scaremongering for a moment. ‘Dorek, what’s that down there? Circle around that traffic jam at eleven o’clock.’
Dorek nudged the stick and the Puma dropped its nose and swooped down like a bird. Meena felt queasy as the ground loomed up fast again.
Down below, a group of cars was clustered around a junction, vying for who would move first. Some people had got out and were having an argument. Wherever you went, it seemed people always had time for road rage.
‘Just another set of broken lights,’ said Meena. Dorek swung upwards again, leaving them behind.
In her headphones, the French listeners were exploring another rich seam of woe. ‘London has squandered our artistic heritage. It built its art galleries and museums too close to the river. Thousands of Europe’s treasures will have been ruined. It’s like New Orleans. When that flooded, the water was raw sewage. So all those ruined paintings can’t be cleaned. They will have to be burned.’
Meena was starting to find this irritating. This French programme seemed to be enjoying these terrible events. ‘If this can happen to London,’ said a deep Gallic voice, ‘what about the Netherlands? The Netherlands should be thinking about evacuating its people. For some countries this could be the end of civilization as they know it.’
They sped away from the traffic jam and out over open fields. Then Meena saw barbed wire fences, green military vehicles and low buildings, with people in khaki uniforms moving between them. A military base. Parked on the asphalt at the front was a helicopter.
‘That looks like our chap,’ said Phil.
The helicopter’s wings were hanging down, at rest. A figure wearing khaki plus-fours was standing beside it, under a striped golf umbrella, chatting to a couple of soldiers.
Dorek circled the Puma around in a movement that nearly had Meena depositing her breakfast out of the window. He stopped and hovered.
The figure in plus-fours tilted the umbrella back and looked up. Meena recognized him immediately: it was the Prime Minister. Beside him, getting rather wet, was his security guard; a t
all, thickset guy in a suit with a bulge like a holster under his arm.
The PM gave the Puma a cheery wave.
‘England is certainly finished,’ said the merry people of France in Meena’s headphones.
No we’re not, she thought, and pulled the cables out of her ears. She put her phone onto video mode. There was just enough battery for a few exclusive shots of the PM, safe and well and about to receive his first briefing on the rescue operation.
Chapter Thirty
Ben had a torch in each hand. He switched them on and played them over the walls of the darkened stairwell. The torches were really powerful, highlighting the footprints he and Eva had left earlier. He leaned over the banister and shone them all the way down to the ground floor. It was so nice not to be creeping around dark places any more. He was warm and dry, and he had light. He felt on top of the world.
They were on the fourth floor, where Eva was trying to find a toilet that wasn’t too disgusting.
Down below in the stairwell, Ben heard a bang and a scrape. Then voices. There were people moving about on one of the floors below.
Eva came up behind him, zipping up her drysuit. ‘What was that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He went down the steps a little way and shone the lights down. ‘Hello?’
‘Probably someone else getting warm gear,’ said Eva. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
As they started down the stairs, they saw that the swing door to the diving department was propped open with a scuba tank on a black harness. A man in a rubberized drysuit came out carrying another tank and put it down on the tiled floor.
Ben stopped and turned the torches off. Eva bumped into him.
‘What?’ she said loudly.
‘Ssh,’ Ben whispered. ‘I’ve seen those guys before. They were looting in Piccadilly just before you found me. They’re not nice.’
In the light from the window, he realized that Eva’s expression looked angry. ‘They saw you like that and they didn’t help you?’
