by Chris Ryan
The communications officer looked up from his console and gave a thumbs up.
That was it. The sub had acknowledged the message. The signal had been dropped in the right spot. Down in the deep steel-grey water, the sub was returning to normal duties.
The Nimrod’s job was done. It completed its last circle and headed straight for home.
* * *
Francisco crouched down low in the boat next to Eva. He had a knife, which he kept pressed against her leg, his fist curled round the knuckleduster handle, its brass curls showing between his fingers. That alone looked brutal enough. With his other hand he kept his jacket hood up over his head. José got down next to Ben. He kept the gun against Ben’s knee; with his other hand he pointed up the river. ‘Drive.’
Ben did exactly as he was asked. The gun and the knife were like some kind of over-ride switch in his head. The black muzzle and that vicious blade were all he could see.
He took the boat across the bottom end of Trafalgar Square, then down towards the Embankment. Once he reached the course of the river proper, he opened the throttle.
He misjudged. This wasn’t anything like zipping across the empty reservoirs in the Peak District and Macclesfield Forest. The river was full of obstacles: bridges, vehicles, other boats. Not only that, the current was at its most fierce here. In moments it whipped him around through 180 degrees, and the solid bulk of Hungerford railway bridge was racing towards him, like a giant iron girder with a train parked on top. He pulled the tiller hard left and an enormous wash of stinking water rained down into the boat. With one eye open he narrowly avoided a drifting bus and looped a circle around the London Eye and the ArBonCo Centre.
José dug the pistol into his leg. ‘West,’ he said roughly.
On the third circle Ben had managed to slow down the boat a little. The soft hull scraped against the top of a lamppost. He looked down, trying to thread between them, but he was still going too fast and he scraped the entire row of them.
It didn’t help his concentration having the gun pointed at him: he kept finding his gaze wandering back to it.
An army dinghy chugged by, full of rescued people huddling under tarpaulins to keep dry. It was going at half the speed Ben was. The soldier at the tiller shouted at him, the words lost in the whine of the engine. He obviously wasn’t impressed by Ben’s driving. Ben looked back at him helplessly. Maybe he would see they were at gunpoint. But José and Francisco kept down low. They must be worried they might be recognized. Ben tried sending desperate thoughts towards the soldiers. Look at us, he telepathed. Can’t you see they’ve got a gun?
The wind flung rain into his face, and by the time Ben opened his eyes again the soldiers were long gone and he was trying to focus on what he would hit next. As well as checking out the gun sticking in his knee. And the knife.
His eyes sent his brain a snapshot of Eva, huddled down next to Francisco, staring at his blade.
A Chinook was hanging over a bridge in the distance, figures dangling from its winch like toys on a mobile. Ben was so busy looking at it that he almost didn’t see that Westminster Bridge was straight in front of him. Another sharp turn and he was whizzing over the terrace in front of the Houses of Parliament, his reflection speeding past its gothic windows. He circled around the entire building, passing between the railings at the front and Westminster Abbey. The Cutty Sark rocked in his wake. He swept around to the front and into the main drag of the river again. Circling seemed the only way to slow down. Still, he’d got past the bridge.
He hoped there weren’t any news cameras in any of those helicopters. If his dad or his cousins ever saw this, he’d never be allowed in a boat again. That’s if he and Eva got out of this alive. Probably the only reason they were alive at the moment was that there were so many people around. Otherwise Francisco and José would have disposed of them straight away.
What would happen once they got into a less busy part of the river?
Just behind him a Chinook stopped over Westminster Bridge and let its winch down. Ben swung the boat round in a big circle, making an S shape. He nearly rammed a boat coming the other way, full of more of those men in the scarlet uniforms with the multicoloured medal ribbons. Ben did a tight circle around them, spelling out an O, then started another S.
SOS. For the benefit of the audience in the sky.
José seemed to have had enough of Ben’s erratic seamanship. He dragged him away from the controls and took the tiller himself. Ben had got his message out just in time. That is, if the Chinook above had seen.
The bottom of the boat humped as it rasped over a submerged object. Ben saw a concrete shelter like a bus stop, the water swirling backwards and forwards over it. José looked down, surprised.
Not so easy to steer this thing, is it? gloated Ben.
The next bridge was going to be tricky. A big old brown building with tall Tudor windows stood close to it, forming a bottleneck for the water-borne traffic. It was like a blind corner on a bend.
Suddenly a small motorboat was coming towards them from the other direction. Ben caught a glimpse of two figures in Barbour jackets, waving at José. There was no way that both craft could get through that narrow gap at the same time.
José slid the rudder hard left, and the dinghy was buffeted against the motorboat, side on. Fibreglass hull scraped against the rubber of the dinghy. José stood up and cocked the Beretta. ‘Out of the way.’
In the boat were a couple in their fifties, their possessions lying in plastic boxes around their feet. They looked at José and the gun with wide, fearful eyes.
The woman put her hands up. She was trying to talk but the words wouldn’t come. The man grabbed something from the dashboard and raised it. It was a stubby-looking gun: a flare pistol.
‘Don’t shoot,’ he called, but his hand was shaking. ‘We’re just trying to get away from town.’ The boat bobbed up and down on the choppy water, making the gun wave crazily, as if he was trying to draw something in the air with the muzzle.
‘We’ll go back,’ said his wife. She grabbed the wheel and tried to manoeuvre the boat out of the way.
Her husband wasn’t expecting that. He lost his balance and a bright flash of orange light shot towards the dinghy like a torpedo.
Ben huddled next to Eva on the floor of the dinghy. The flare hit the water less than a metre away from them and exploded in a plume of brown water.
When Ben raised his head, his hair was full of filthy water. Eva was cowering next to Francisco, who was shaking water out of his eyes, feeling for his knife on the floor of the dinghy with the other hand.
Ben saw it all in slow motion. The man in the other boat was looking terrified. Firing the flare pistol was obviously an accident, but José was rising to his knees, the Beretta ready to fire back.
Ben hunched into a ball and rolled into him. José fell forwards and pulled the trigger at the same moment, and the bullet bored straight through the side of the dinghy. There was a massive explosion.
Then they were in the water, the dinghy reduced to scraps of burning rubber. Ben could see Eva swirling away in the current, her mouth gasping and screaming, as if she was no more than a disembodied head. He saw the white hull of the motorboat coming up and tried to grab at it, but before he could get his arm out of the water, he had slid past it.
He went under and came back up again. Something hidden under the surface banged into his legs, as if he was in the jaws of some flying monster that was dragging him along the ground. A wall hit him in the ribs, so hard that he doubled over with the impact, and his vision was blanked out by river water as he went under again.
When he resurfaced, spitting and gasping, looking for help, all he could see was moving boats, shouting faces. José swirled near to him, like an out-of-control dodgem. He was hunched over the stalled engine, trying to use it to stay afloat. The remains of the flare still fizzed in the water and burning scraps of dinghy sent wisps of smoke up into the rainy air.
Ben went und
er again. As he kicked to the surface, his feet met something solid; a bridge parapet perhaps. His feet struggled to get a purchase on something. Then suddenly he caught sight of a big shape moving past in the water: a pale grey triangular fin like a sail; an empty-looking black eye. A circuit completed in his brain and he waited to see the words: SEE THE TIGER SHARK AT THE LONDON AQUARIUM. How come that cardboard notice was still here?
A wave washed over him so he didn’t see that there were no words. Just a long expanse of grey solid flesh. Flesh that was moving, rippling as the tail swished from side to side.
Ben’s feet found his perch and his eyes opened again. The next thing he saw was Francisco being swept past, the water catching at his rucksack and pulling him along. Ben saw the terrorist’s arms and legs paddling wildly as he rose and fell in the water.
The cut-out shark came past again. It felt like something big was slicing through the water; something as big as a boat. Then Ben glimpsed a flap-like mouth and a big set of open jaws lined with ragged teeth.
That wasn’t a cardboard shark. It was real.
Ben knew that sharks were attracted by the frantic scrabbling of a struggling swimmer, but his instincts to escape drove all sensible thought out of his mind. His feet started running along the invisible wall beneath him, his arms splashing about wildly. He launched himself backwards — anything to get away from that killing machine.
As he sank down into the water again, he tried to kick up, but his feet hit empty water. Without his foothold he couldn’t stay afloat … couldn’t breathe. He struck out with his arms.
Then something grabbed him. Was it the shark?
Chapter Thirty-three
They say a drowning man comes up three times. Ben came up and saw Eva’s face. With one hand she was grasping the neck of his suit; with the other it seemed like she was trying to hit him. Ben went under and was dragged up again, spitting and gasping as his mouth filled with foul water. Eva tried to punch him again. This time she got him — hard in the middle of the chest.
There was a loud hissing noise, and then she stopped trying to hit him.
Ben realized he was floating: he wasn’t having to keep himself above the water. The suit felt tighter around his shoulders and chest.
Eva was bobbing beside him, her arms out in a T-shape beside her. ‘You can stop struggling. I just hit your buoyancy valve.’
Where was the shark? Ben spluttered out a warning. It didn’t come out as words, only water.
A few metres away they heard a piercing scream and Ben saw Francisco’s flailing arms and the nose of the tiger shark like the cone of a rocket. Its jaw dropped open and closed around Francisco’s middle.
The sound was cut off as abruptly as it had started. Ben and Eva stayed bobbing in the water, stunned. They seemed to have been swept out of the fierce Thames current. It was no longer a struggle to stay in one place. The top of a tree was sticking up out of the water just a few metres away, and beyond that was the hurly-burly of travelling boats and flood detritus.
They were in some kind of enclosure, like a walled garden. It must belong to the big Tudor building.
And hopefully the shark was still out there with all the rest of the traffic.
Eva was the first to speak. ‘He was bleeding. That’s why the shark was attracted to him.’
Ben remembered the wounds on Francisco’s wrists. Then he had another thought. ‘Eva, don’t you think it’s weird that there’s a shark in the Thames?’
She made a movement, like a shrug, her hands waving gently in the water. ‘There have been porpoises and whales in the Thames before. A shark is par for the course.’
Ben couldn’t fathom her. She reminded him of a very serious teacher at his school, who never laughed or looked surprised at anything.
Eva certainly was a strange girl. But now she had saved his life twice.
Eva swam towards the building and Ben followed. They climbed in through a window like two floundering fish, leaving splashes on the polished oak floor.
Outside, in the water, José couldn’t see Francisco. He was clinging desperately to a lamppost, but the current was battering against him, trying to shake him loose. His police hat had gone and no one could see the markings on the jacket.
The current was winning.
Then José saw a boat coming towards him and made a desperate bid to swim to it. With a superhuman effort he reached its varnished sides and thankfully slapped a hand onto it.
Something hard and wooden came down on his hands. As he fell back into the water he saw an old guy in a black hat like Nelson’s and a red coat with gold buttons, holding a cricket bat.
José submerged and came back up. His ears were full of water but he could see the man’s lips moving.
‘Oh no you don’t.’
* * *
Clive Brooks, Sidney Cadogan, Madeleine Harwood and Fat Pinstripe were sitting around a large dining table in one of the bunker’s wood-panelled private dining rooms. The furniture was mahogany. There were even heavy brocade curtains to give the impression of a normal room with windows.
Despite the opulence, Fat Pinstripe was worrying about the accommodation. ‘If we have to stay down here for months, we need to get organized. We should form a bunker committee. Get some rules in this place. Some of these facilities and supplies should be restricted access.’
‘No we don’t,’ said Bel tartly. ‘Instead of counting the toilet rolls, we need to worry about why we ended up here in the first place and work out how to stop it happening again.’
‘You can stay here,’ said a voice at the door, ‘or you can come with us and leave by the Camden entrance. Once you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, of course, to cover this incident.’
Standing outside in the corridor were two soldiers in disruption-pattern uniform and neat berets.
Bel didn’t hang around. She was the first out into the corridor. More soldiers were going through the rooms and preparing the evacuation. The corridor was teeming with people, like an airport departure lounge. They seemed to be heading in the general direction of one corridor, filing past a soldier with a palm pilot.
Bel went up to the soldier. ‘Have you evacuated the ArBonCo Centre or Charing Cross yet?’
‘We’re getting around to all those places in good time, ma’am. Are you looking for someone in particular?’
‘My son. I was meant to be meeting him.’
The soldier touched the stylus on his screen a couple of times, then handed the palm pilot to Bel. ‘Right, ma’am. Put your details in and the details of any people you’re looking for. Then, when we pick your son up, the database will flag that we’ve got you too.’
Bel thought it sounded dubious: what were the chances that another Ben Tracey was wandering the capital today? But the form asked for plenty of details: her home address, date of birth, middle names; and the same for Ben. She filled it in, handed the palm pilot back and peered at the screen over the soldier’s shoulder.
‘So, have you got him?’
‘We can’t tell you that yet, ma’am, we have to hook up to the satellite. But as soon as we get back to the rescue centre we do a match for all the people we’ve picked up. We’ve matched a lot of people already.’
She stepped away and joined the stream of people starting the walk towards the Camden entrance. How long would she have to wait?
Ahead of her, a tall figure in a suit was getting directions from a soldier with a clipboard. He had sandy-coloured hair and a shirt with an open collar that revealed a healthy outdoor tan. Bel’s sharp eyes recognized him immediately from news pictures: David Atkinson, the Prime Minister of Canada. He had been down here all the time, in another part of the bunker.
She set off dodging through the crowd like a rugger player going for a try, crumpled purple sleeves pushed up purposefully.
Chapter Thirty-four
Ben and Eva heard the pounding of the helicopter outside but they’d stopped getting excited at the sound. So many had gone overh
ead already and hadn’t stopped for them. And anyway, it wasn’t as if they were a rescue priority. They were safe enough inside the building. And at least in their drysuits they were warm.
Whatever the building was, it was very old, and the room they were in was interesting to explore. The windows were stained glass, the curtains heavy velvet with gold embroidery. Gold candlesticks stood on a big stone mantelpiece. A big gilded mirror reflected the dull rainy sky outside.
Ben had hung one of the big, gold-embroidered curtains out of the window to attract rescuers’ attention. In the meantime, Eva was looking at some old books on the shelves while Ben was trying to get the zip undone on his drysuit. It was doing too good a job of keeping him warm now. He peered in the mirror, trying to get hold of the tag to ease it open.
He got the shock of his life when he saw, behind his reflection, the figure dangling on a rope in the window.
He whirled round. The helicopter outside must have stopped for them. A man was hanging there in an abseil harness, beckoning them to come outside.
Eva and Ben reached the window at the same time.
Their rescuer was a soldier in khaki fatigues and a khaki-painted helmet. He held out another sling.
Ben gestured to Eva to go first, and she stepped onto the window ledge. The soldier gave her the sling while he signalled to Ben to turn round so that he could grasp him around the middle with his legs; then he gave a thumbs-up signal to the winch operator waiting above.
As the winch pulled them up, Ben took a last look down at the dirty river water, the surface corrugated by the helicopter’s downdraught. The noise of the heli became louder and louder, and by the time they had been winched up into its belly, it was deafening.
The winchman waved Ben and Eva towards some seats at the front, where several people were already sitting huddled in foil survival blankets. Ben headed for an empty seat and the heli lurched, nearly depositing him in the lap of a pretty woman in a green helmet and a dark blue jumpsuit. He regained his balance and sat down heavily opposite her instead.
