by Chris Ryan
Ben watched the man go back in before replying. ‘They thought I was drunk. And they were trying to smash their way into a jeweller’s.’
Eva stared after the man.
Ben didn’t like the look on her face. He took a pinch of her wetsuit to pull her down the stairs.
She followed reluctantly, still brooding about his story. ‘You don’t leave someone who’s got hypothermia.’
‘Look,’ whispered Ben, ‘that’s not as bad as the guy who locked me in a cellar that was filling with water. It’s just been one of those days. Come on — if we’re quick they won’t see us.’
Carefully they went down the staircase. Once they were past Eva looked back at the tanks.
‘What do they want those for?’
Ben shrugged. ‘I guess there’s some more jewellery they couldn’t get. Maybe they’re planning to dive for it.’
Eva spun on her heel and skipped back up the steps. She bent over the tank and twisted a valve. There was a hiss as gas began to escape.
Ben sprinted back up after her. ‘What are you doing?’ He put his hand on the tap and tried to close it. ‘You can’t do that. Someone might get hurt.’
‘They left you in a state where you could have died. I’m going to make sure they find it difficult to get away with any more booty.’ She turned the tap to open again. This time she kept her hand on the valve so he couldn’t close it again.
Ben took hold of her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Stop it. What if they’re using these to help with a rescue?’ Eva put her hand out to grab the banisters and the air tank rolled towards the top step.
Ben tried to grab the harness but he missed, and it rolled easily, bouncing down the tiled steps with a loud metallic clang.
A figure appeared in the doorway, a sledgehammer raised above his head. Ben saw it descending towards him and rolled out of the way, knocking the other air tank over.
As he did so, the regulator snapped off the top, which released the pressure through the tiny hole — and turned the heavy metal air tank into a rocket.
Ben ducked just in time. The tank torpedoed past his ear and carried on through the thick wooden banisters, smashing a hole and hissing loudly. It ploughed into the wall and veered off, splintering wood and shattering glass.
Ben was crouched against the wall, his head cradled in his arms. He opened one eye and looked down.
He couldn’t see Eva, but he noticed a deep dent in the wall, as though a car had crashed into it. Plaster and brickwork crumbled down into the stairwell. The other tank sat hissing and spinning in a circle on the half landing below. Eva must have succeeded in loosening the regulator.
Suddenly Ben’s head was crushed in a painful grip. ‘You little twerp. What do you think you are, some kind of crimefighter?’
Ben twisted his head round and saw the looter reaching for the sledgehammer. He kicked it out of the way and knocked the looter over. The two of them crashed down the stairs — down towards the other tank.
‘Ben!’ yelled Eva’s voice. ‘Get away from it!’
Oh, that’s brilliant, thought Ben. How exactly do I do that? He caught sight of the man’s partner in the doorway, keeping his distance.
The looter had him around the throat. He tried to pull away but the man’s grip was strong. The tank spun in a circle, smashing into his shins and knees. The looter pushed Ben’s face closer to the whirling tank. He continued to struggle, wondering if this tank was about to go off like a rocket too? He managed to grab the banister to pull himself away, but it snapped immediately.
He could hear Eva screaming: ‘Get off him, get off him!’ She was down below him. How had she managed to get down there when he had ended up grappling on the landing?
The looter lost his grip on Ben’s collar and grabbed at his head. Ben wrenched himself free, leaving his neoprene cap behind. The whirling cylinder was still spinning round between them. The looter kicked out at it and Ben flattened himself against the wall as it clattered past him.
A sound from below made the whole group freeze. A voice talking over a radio.
‘Do you copy?’
‘Possible intruder action,’ came the reply. ‘Proceeding with caution.’
There were footsteps coming up the stairs. Torches played over the walls and between the banisters.
The looters looked at each other in horror. They forgot about Ben and Eva and scrambled up the stairs again. Something glittery slid out of the man’s pocket and caught on the edge of the banisters for a moment, then slithered into the blackness.
The footsteps stopped. There was a scraping noise as something was picked up off the floor. ‘Sir, we’ve got what looks like a very valuable necklace here. There are looters in the store.’
There was a loud crack. It was the kind of noise that not many people hear in real life, but when they do they know exactly what it means. It was followed by a smell of smoke and gunpowder, like a firework going off.
They had just been shot at.
Chapter Thirty-one
Eva hared up the steps towards Ben, who immediately caught her panic. He followed her through a pair of fire doors, barely thinking, taken over by an instinct to run.
Whoever the soldiers caught first they would assume had stolen the necklace. And technically Eva and Ben were looters because they had taken things from the store, even though it was for survival.
They were running for their lives. They pushed past racks of skimpy gym clothes and trainers. At least they gave them some cover. The looters had disappeared.
In front of them they saw a window. It suddenly shattered and they heard a shot from behind.
If they carried on rushing around like this, they would just run into more trouble. Ben needed to think.
He spotted a rack of black rugby gear and rugger-tackled Eva into it. In their black drysuits they blended in, and they watched the soldiers hurrying past, shouting, pushing racks of clothes aside with the muzzles of their guns. The three of them passed close to where Eva and Ben lay huddled, and headed off towards the cash desk and some changing rooms.
Ben waited until they were out of sight, then pulled Eva up. There was a fire exit opposite him. He fell on the door and pushed the bar open.
They ran down the stairs; Ben’s brain was racing even faster than his feet. They had to be quick, now that they were out in the open again. Down one flight he saw the entrance for the country clothing section, just as the soldiers entered the top of the stairwell.
Ben grabbed Eva and tore off her hood. He threw it further down the steps, so that the soldiers would think they had just carried straight on down. She stopped and looked at him, her hair springing out in tight corkscrew curls, her eyes wide with the sheer panic of the chase. So that’s what it’s like to scalp a Teletubby, thought Ben, and dragged her into the country clothing department.
They ran past racks of tweed and Barbours. Ben saw another fire exit and ran for it. Down another flight of stairs and they shouldered open another door, and found themselves out in the street.
Ben had never been so grateful to be back out in the rain again.
They were in Lower Regent Street, which sloped down into the grey water. Just below them, on the tarmac, lay a small dinghy. Ben sprinted towards it, pushed it into the water and pulled Eva in.
He had a moment of déjà vu: it was like his cousins’ boat in Macclesfield. The starter cord in the same place, the tiller the same. Ben pulled the starter cord and it started first time. He guided it slowly out into the water.
Then he flopped back and relaxed, exhausted. The chase was over. They’d got away.
For once the rain felt refreshing. Running in the drysuit, especially with thermals on, was hot work.
‘Handy boat,’ said Ben. ‘I wonder who it belongs to.’
‘Hey, look,’ said Eva. She pointed back at the shoreline, where Lower Regent Street rose up out of the water.
Two figures in black were standing at the shore, watching Ben and Eva in the boat.
The looters.
‘Ah,’ said Ben. ‘Let’s hope we don’t meet them again. They probably won’t be very friendly.’
‘I bet they stole it,’ said Eva. ‘Who knows who it really belongs to?’ She shifted a small rucksack out of the way to sit more comfortably.
The three soldiers came out of the fire exit and surrounded the looters, guns held up to their shoulders, ready to fire. Those few moments watching Ben in their stolen boat had cost the looters dearly.
For a horrible moment Ben thought they were going to be shot there and then. But then, reluctantly, they put their hands up.
Eva shook out her hair and settled back. ‘Serves them right,’ she commented. Her restful pose didn’t last long. Suddenly she wrinkled her nose and sat up. ‘It smells filthy out here.’
Now that she mentioned it, Ben had to agree. It reminded him of a camping trip he’d taken with his cousins last August. The tent with the chemical toilet had got so smelly they decided they’d rather go in the bushes.
‘Where are we going?’ said Eva.
For a moment Ben’s mind was a blank. He knew he’d been going somewhere, but the excitement had driven it out of his mind. Then he saw a road sign. Buckingham Palace to the right, Charing Cross to the left. Of course.
‘Charing Cross,’ he said. ‘Someone should be waiting for me there. I hope …’
* * *
Francisco heard movement outside the station. Something stirring the water very slowly, like a boat.
He looked through the arches and saw a figure in a dark jacket moving outside. He seemed to be sitting astride a big motorbike and moving it very slowly through the water, seesawing from side to side as though he was pushing it with his feet.
He squinted at the hat the man was wearing. White and red checks. A City policeman.
Quite an enterprising policeman. He was using the heavy motorbike as an anchor to enable him to make his way across the current.
Francisco thought quickly. Had José remained in captivity? Had he had to confess about their rendezvous location?
Why was a policeman coming in here now?
Francisco checked the clip of the Beretta and clicked the safety catch off with his thumb. He stayed where he was, sitting in the locker. It was good cover. Besides, if he moved, the policeman would hear the splash.
He glanced at the white puff in the water: the body of the tramp lay face down, nosing against a news stand. If the policeman saw that, his suspicions might be aroused. Francisco was ready to drop him.
The policeman reached the arch and dropped the motorcycle. It crashed against the wall and subsided into the water.
Interesting, thought Francisco. He didn’t think policemen were generally that careless with property.
The figure stood at the archway and looked around, then stared over at the left luggage lockers.
Francisco stiffened.
The policeman waded forwards and took his hat off.
Francisco put his gun down and called out in Spanish. ‘José, you idiot. I nearly shot you.’
José grinned. ‘Better late than never.’ He splashed over to Francisco and they embraced.
Francisco examined José’s costume. ‘Good outfit. It fooled me.’ Only now did he notice that José didn’t have the right trousers to go with the police jacket, but they had been almost covered by the water.
José shrugged. ‘It’s been useful.’ He opened their locker and looked in.
Francisco patted his pockets. ‘I’ve got the maps and some basics.’ He handed José a Swiss Army knife.
José put it in his pocket. ‘Have you got your cuffs off?’
Francisco showed him his wrists, still bloodied under the cuffs. ‘Made a bit of a mess. Wish we’d packed some antibiotics. What did you do with yours?’
José held up his wrists. His cuffs were still there too. ‘Boltcutters.’ He rummaged in the locker. ‘Did you take all the money? You could at least give me some.’
‘I didn’t know if you were going to show.’
José put his hand out. ‘Half each. In case we get separated. That’s what we agreed.’
Francisco reached into his pocket and took out the folded wad of notes. He split it and gave half to José, along with one of the fake passports. José tucked the money into the pocket of his dark jeans.
‘Have you got our route sorted?’
Francisco nodded. ‘Now we just need a boat.’
* * *
Ben piloted the dinghy into Trafalgar Square. Ahead was Nelson’s Column, just on the edge of the waterline. Passing in front of it in a small boat was a group of people in scarlet coats and gold buttons. They wore strange hats, rather like the three-cornered hat Nelson was wearing. It looked like a uniform of some kind, but it wasn’t one that Ben had seen before. Their boat, which they were rowing in a slow but dogged fashion, looked as though it had come out of a museum. It was heavily varnished like a piece of antique furniture. But it was a day for strange sights.
‘You’re kidding,’ Eva was saying. ‘Your mother isn’t really Bel Kelland? She came to give a speech at my college debating society in my final year. My boyfriend had to show her around — he was terrified of her.’
‘Yeah, my dad doesn’t like her much either.’
Eva pointed over to a building like a dirty grey wedding cake. A series of arches ran along the bottom. ‘Charing Cross is just up there. I can’t wait to meet her.’ She actually looked quite excited at the prospect.
Ben felt a bit sick. If Bel wasn’t there, what would he do then? He hadn’t given it any thought. He’d spent all that time just trying to get here. Now that Charing Cross was actually in sight, he had to face up to the possibility.
He took the boat up to one of the arches in front of the entrance. It was too narrow to fit through. He craned his neck round, but couldn’t see inside the station. He turned back to Eva. ‘You stay here. If I wedge the boat in, it shouldn’t go anywhere. I just need to see if she’s there.’
Eva looked at the deserted concourse, eager for a glimpse of the famous Dr Kelland. ‘I don’t see anyone, apart from those two guys over by the left luggage.’
One of the two figures started to wade in their direction and they saw that he was a policeman, the band around his hat red and white instead of the usual black and white.
‘I didn’t think the police had hats like that,’ said Ben.
‘The City of London police do,’ said Eva.
Ben waved to him. The policeman spotted him and began to wade purposefully towards them. The guy with him still had his back to them; he was carrying a rucksack and wore a jacket with a big logo on the back.
The policeman looked very wet, as though he’d had a hell of a day too. There were smears of mud on his black raincoat. The other guy looked dry. Ben assumed the policeman must be one of the evacuation party.
‘Hi,’ said Ben. ‘I know this sounds silly, but I’d arranged to meet my mum here …’
‘Can you pilot this boat?’ said the policeman. He had a strange accent; strongly Spanish.
That was unusual, Ben thought. Then he looked more closely at the other man. Why did he look familiar?
‘Yes,’ he replied.
The policeman grabbed the ropes on the side of the dinghy and climbed in. The other man turned, handed his rucksack to the policeman and began to wade over. Now Ben could see his face.
Suddenly everything seemed to slow down. The guy’s face. The bloodied marks on his wrists. He knew him!
Eva made a strangled noise, like she’d had a shock.
Then Ben saw the gun in the policeman’s hand, pressed against Eva’s temple.
Chapter Thirty-two
The sub captain looked at the chronometer, its figures starkly green in the red background light of the conn. Still, there had been no contact from Whitehall.
The helmsman watched the depth gauge display, then turned around. ‘Captain, we’re ascending to the surface now.’
Once again, the sub was r
isking discovery by coming to the surface to send a signal.
‘Communications Officer, prepare to deploy the radio mast.’
‘Radio mast is ready to deploy, sir.’
‘Sir.’ The navigation officer turned round. ‘We’ve got something in the water above us.’
The captain was at his side immediately, looking at the sonar screen. The sweeping orange arm was highlighting a spot just north-west of them. It was travelling slowly — in their direction.
The navigation officer checked his other instruments. ‘By the way it’s moving it’s been dropped into the water from a plane, sir.’
The captain straightened up. This could be enemy action. Or it could be something else … ‘Helmsman, abandon current manoeuvre. Hold your position. Weapons officer, check out the object.’
His next order was pre-empted. The communications officer spoke. ‘Sir, it’s attempting to make contact. It’s a sonar signal.’
The entire conn held its breath. The captain spoke. ‘What nationality is it?’
The communications officer double-checked his instruments before answering. ‘British, sir. Whitehall’s back on line. They must have sent a Nimrod to drop a radio buoy.’
They couldn’t relax yet. What was the message? Would they get the all-clear? Or were they going to continue to follow sealed orders and possibly fire on an enemy country?
On the communications officer’s console, a red light came on. Beside it, a tongue of white paper like a till roll slowly curled out of a printer.
‘Captain,’ said the communications officer. He tore the sheet of paper free.
The captain went and took the sheet of paper, scan-reading it.
When he looked up, it was as though a black shadow had lifted from his face. ‘Gentlemen, we are to stand down. I’m going to talk to the crew.’
* * *
In the skies above the Atlantic, a Nimrod jet flew in a wide circle, leaving a vapour trail over the water like a halo. It was a state-of-the-art aircraft, carrying the latest communications equipment. It had just dropped a sonar signal into the water near the submarine. And now it was waiting for a very important message.
