Levels of Power

by Mike Gilmore

  Iraj remained silent. Mohammad Javan glanced into the rearview mirror to look at Iraj over his own massive left shoulder. He was about to repeat his instructions when Iraj simply said, “Yes.”

  Finally, the traffic moved, and they made half of the remaining distance to the square before the traffic stopped again. Mohammad Javan consulted his watch. They were running at least thirty minutes late. Hossein would have assumed the first bomb would have gone off by now. Perhaps the traffic and rain had also affected Hossein and Shir’s timetable for their part of the mission.

  They were now within one hundred feet of the planned drop-off at the northeast corner to the square. The huge National Gallery building loomed outside the window on Mohammad Javan’s right side.

  He looked around for security guards of any type but saw nothing to cause any alarm. “Iraj, arm your bomb and prepare to exit the van when we stop the next time. Try to find someplace to remain out of sight until well after we make the turn onto Duncannon Street.”

  Once they made the left turn onto the short one-way street and back to The Strand, they would move with the flow of the traffic and shortly arrive in front of the main entrance to Charing Cross Station. Gholam would be only minutes away from the lobby area of the station. He would have to find a place to hide the bomb, perhaps inside one of the retail shops. Once he heard the first explosion from the square, he would activate a ten-minute timer designed by Iraj to detonate when the British flooded the station seeking shelter from the danger on the square. If discovered early, they could detonate the bomb immediately. Iraj had a trigger device wired to all the explosives that would send an electrical charge from the batteries to the blasting caps; the bombs would explode.

  Traffic moved again, and Mohammad Javan fed gas to the engine. The van moved another sixty feet. When the brakes brought the van to a stop, he simply said, “Go.”

  Iraj Malek-Mohammadi had already slid across the back seat. He opened the passenger door behind Gholam nearest the sidewalk and stepped out of the van. The rain had largely abated.

  He walked behind the van and crossed the street. He stole a quick glance at the driver’s rearview mirror and saw Mohammad Javan’s eyes in the reflection. He reached the wide walkway separating the National Gallery and Trafalgar Square. Once it had been a through street connecting Pall Mall East to Charing Cross Road. The last renovation to the square had closed the street to vehicular traffic. He could have moved due south to a line of trees along the east side of the square just a few feet from the van to remain out of sight and give Mohammad Javan and Gholam time to make the turn onto Ducannon Street. Instead, he started walking in a straight line, two hundred and fifty feet toward the open space at the back of Trafalgar Square and then between the two plinths.

  Iraj had trained a long time to reach this part of their plan. He saw the massive column in front of him rising majestically into the stormy night sky. He gripped the two canvas handles on the tool bag tightly. The tool bag weight a lot. He had almost eight pounds of C-4 instead of the four pounds originally called for in their plan. The tool bags he had prepared and given to Hossein and Shir Mohammad contained only two pounds of the high explosive. He had felt it was right to reduce their allotment. The plan was to pour the poisoned powder into the drinking water for Central London. His plan was to destroy the column … the centerpiece of Trafalgar Square.

  Chapter 43

  London

  Thursday, December 3, 2015

  4:57 p.m.

  Alfred Duncan had been an English bobby for almost forty years. He had been born in Stockwell, a district in inner South West London about two and one-half miles south-southwest of Charing Cross Station. He had attended the St. Stephen’s Church of England Primary School and continued on to the Stockwell Park School. Upon graduation, he had enlisted in the British Army. Four years later, he left the army as a lance corporal and used the recommendations from his sergeant and platoon lieutenant to apply to the Metropolitan police force.

  He’d settled in his hometown and used the money he had saved from his army pay to put a down payment on a little cottage near the primary school of his youth. During secondary school, he had dated Charlene Quince on a regular basis, and they had continued to write to each other when he was away in service and were always together whenever he could get approved time away from his army posting. Early in their relationship, Charlene stopped calling Alfred by his formal name and just used Alfie.

  They dated only a short time once he return to Stockwell and were married in the St. Stephen’s Church less than three months after he left the army. They spent their seven-day honeymoon on the Isle of Jersey.

  When they returned to their home, Alfie found a letter from the Resources Directorate within the Metropolitan Police Department informing Alfred his application was accepted and he was to report for a physical examination, further testing, and interviews. Six weeks later Alfie entered the new recruit training program at the Scottish Police College in Tulliallan in Perthshire, Scotland. The academy was located in the Tulliallan Castle, built between 1812 and 1820, now turned over to the academy for their use.

  The course consisted of classroom training on law, legal procedures, and physical fitness. Alfie found the workouts in the gym and the outdoor events easy compared to the training he had received in the British Army. The classroom training was interesting enough to keep his mind occupied, and he graduated in the top 10 percent of his class.

  Upon graduation, he became a police constable assigned to Central London on a two-year probationary period where he would work and continue with additional training. In reality, over the years the training never stopped, and Alfie enjoyed most aspects of the work.

  After the probationary period, he tried to get a transfer to the Stockwell Police Station but there were no openings, so he continued to work within the Central London division. As part of his continuing training program during the next five years, other transfers came to Alfie, and he moved about Central London. His reputation as being dependable in tough situations and knowledgeable in all police procedures grew over the years. Alfie Duncan was a good police officer.

  The years passed by. Alfie and Charlene became parents of a girl first and a son two years later. They continued to live in their original home in Stockwell and raised their family. Life was good for Alfred, both at home and work. Eventually he stopped applying for a transfer to Stockwell and continued to work in Central London.

  About fifteen years earlier, he had transferred to the Agar police station and received a new assignment to Trafalgar Square. He walked his outside beat around the square and the National Gallery up to Charing Cross Station. Other officers were assigned to the station interior and the underground tube system. After two years, Alfie received a chance to transfer to the armed service division within Scotland Yard. With the increase in terrorist threats within London, the Yard decided to create a new division of uniformed and armed police. With his military background, the department supervising officers heavily pursued Alfie.

  He took several weeks to discuss the transfer with Charlene. It would mean an increase in pay, and he would not be walking the Trafalgar Square beat in the rain and cold of the London winters. They were sitting outside on their back porch swing on a warm spring evening when he decided he wanted to accept the pay increase. He went through a list of reasons to convince his wife that his decision was the right one.

  Charlene put her right foot down on the porch floor to stop the back and forth motion of the swing. “Alfie, love. What do you like best about your job today?”

  Alfie did not have an immediate answer but finally replied, “Just being a police officer.”

  Charlene shook her head. “Not good enough, Alfie. I will ask you once again. Why do you arrive thirty minutes early for your shift at the station every day? Why do you always work late when they ask you to stay over?”

  Alfie forced the swing back into
motion and used both hands to rub the crown of his head, his thumbs moving just above his ears. He could feel the hair in the middle was thinner than along the sides. He was developing the same bald pattern as his father and grandfather. He gave a little laugh as the truth flooded his mind. “I love the people. Especially the tourists from all over the world. As soon as they get out of the airports, they want to come to my Trafalgar Square. They want to climb the lions. I have to shoo them off. They want to wade in the fountains, and I have to blow my whistle at them to chase them out, even on hot summer days.”

  Charlene leaned over to give her husband a little kiss on the side of his face. “Alfie, do you know you’ve been calling Trafalgar Square your square for the last ten years, maybe even a bit longer? If you left Trafalgar Square, you would regret it within just a few weeks. We do not need the extra money. I am making enough working as the assistant clerk at the Comfort Inn at Vauxhall. Stay where you’re happy.”

  Alfie had notified the officer who had been trying to recruit him into the new division that he was happy where he was and continued working the beat at Trafalgar Square. It turned out the decision had been the right one. Less than six months later, he received a promotion to sergeant. Charlene had cried the day he donned his new jacket with the three chevrons above his division call sign and shoulder number.

  Alfie Duncan took his new position to heart. He made it his mission to learn everything about Trafalgar Square and the buildings surrounding the famous landmark. He spent time learning the names of many of the local workers as they traveled to and from their places of business. He had decided to make Trafalgar Square his place, and no one would hurt Alfie’s home—not in Stockwell or in Trafalgar Square.

  Chapter 44

  London

  Thursday, December 3, 2015

  4:59 p.m.

  Metropolitan Police Sergeant Alfred Duncan was trying to stay warm and dry. He stood under a protrusion in front of the windows of the Hilton Hotel off the southwest corner of Trafalgar Square. The rain had started about an hour ago, and he was close to the hotel at the time. He knew the door attendants, the desk clerks, the maintenance engineers, and the assistant managers and general manager. They all liked having Alfie around. His presence gave their guests a safe feeling, and he was always happy to provide directions. Tourists loved to talk with the famous London bobbies. They were almost a tourist attraction themselves.

  Since the division commander informed the officers about the terrorist threat several days earlier during the division’s morning roll call, Alfie had been working overtime. The extra pay would be nice for the coming Christmas holiday, but in truth he would have worked without overtime.

  He was almost sixty-two years old and twenty pounds heavier than when he started on the force many years ago. Charlene had been retired now for two years and kept some mild pressure on him to turn in his papers and take his pension. The arthritic pain in his back and right shoulder would probably force the decision soon.

  He pulled the collar up on his winter jacket and worked the scarf up a little higher on his neck against the bottom of his ears. He was careful not to dislodge the earpiece from his radio set. Alfie had never regretted his decision to stay in the unarmed division, but he was very glad to accept all the new gadgets the service provided to their officers in the field. With his radio, he could communicate with the officers under his command and with the officer assigned in the War Room to monitor the big screens showing Trafalgar Square and the surrounding area. He knew one of the white dots on the screen represented his presence near the square. He was dressed in his black uniform and heavy coat, his rainproof cover over his cloth helmet. He was also equipped with an Airwave personal radio; the signal from one of the implanted chips would show white on the monitors. White was for an unarmed bobby.

  Having no pistol did not mean Alfie was unarmed. He carried an extendable baton that he was very proficient with, CS/PAVA incapacitating spray, a set of arm restraints, and now an X-26 Taser. Unarmed, but still a formidable police officer.

  Alfie had been watching the traffic slowly moving past the hotel and around the square. It was about as bad as it could get, and it would probably be at least another two hours before traffic would start to thin out. The wind had suddenly lessened and the rainfall was not as hard. His field of vision was improving as he looked out toward Nelson’s Column. The ground-mounted spotlights never failed to make the majestic monument shine, even in a heavy rain.

  He noticed the man approaching the north entrance to the square at almost the same time as his earpiece made a mild scratchy noise and a voice popped into his ear.

  “Stranger entering the square carrying some sort of tool bag.”

  Alfie left the hotel entrance area in the diminishing rain. He crossed the street, working his way through the stopped cars. The traffic jam was a blessing for him at this minute. He entered the southeast corner of Trafalgar Square and quickly walked toward the center of the square as the man was about to enter the middle section of Trafalgar Square in between the two fountains.

  Alfie’s ear mike crackled again. “Subject might be heading to the fountain. He is wearing a uniform. We think it might be a maintenance man from the Thames Water Utility. Maybe he’s there to work on the fountains.”

  Alfie was wondering who in the hell was on the other end of the ear mike. He hit the button that activated the miniature speaker attached to the collar of his jacket. “There would be no service personnel from Thames Water here at night. Moreover, they would not be making any repairs to the fountains. That would happen under the Greater London Authority control. The pumps and controls for the fountains are located under Charing Cross Station.”

  He flipped the radio to a frequency that allowed all the men in the sector to hear his instructions along with the idiot back at the War Room.

  “Be alert, gentlemen. We might have something going on here. Units Two and Four, move in to inspect the man with the tool bag.”

  In the War Room conversation dropped as everyone became aware of a possible situation developing toward the middle of Trafalgar Square. Overhead speakers broadcast the radio conversation between the officer monitoring the screen and communications with the officers on the ground at Trafalgar Square.

  Randy Fisher had been waiting in the War Room for the language experts back in Langley to provide the interpretation of the unidentified Persian words found on the blank sheet of paper. BookReader sat on straight-back chairs in the rear of the room drinking coffee and following the new developments on the front-wall screens.

  For Fisher, the waiting game was becoming tiresome. He could understand why some ranking military officers would rather be in the field with their men. Waiting back at headquarters until the military mission began could strain any person’s nerves. With nothing else to do, it only seemed natural to wait in the War Room, where he would hear if anything was happening. It seemed his decision was correct. Something might be developing right that minute.

  Iraj Malek-Mohammadi walked at a steady pace toward Nelson’s Column, unaware he had already attracted the attention of six members of Alfie Duncan’s security squad and the people in the War Room. His eyes were fixated on his target. Iraj was near the center spot between the two water fountains, fifty or sixty feet from the base of the historic column, when he became aware of several men in uniform approaching from both the east and west corners of Trafalgar Square. He stopped his forward movement and slowly turned his head left and right, looking at them and deciding if he could proceed. Were they a threat?

  In the van, Gholam was the first to notice that Iraj had not taken shelter to wait until they were closer to Charing Cross Station. Mohammad Javan, behind the driver’s wheel, had only been able to move the van a few yards in the congested traffic since Iraj had left the van. Gholam reached over with his right hand and tapped Mohammad on the shoulder. The heavyset man quickly glanced left at his partner. Gholam was
leaning forward and pointing out the window to Mohammad’s right. The big man twisted in his seat and looked at the object of Gholam’s concern.

  Mohammad swore under his breath. Iraj was not waiting near the trees as instructed but standing near the center of the square. The bomb-maker was going to ruin their timetable for the attack. Mohammad needed to make a quick decision; should Gholam leave the safety of the van and try to walk the two blocks to Charing Cross Station?

  Over the radio network, officers were reporting in their assessments of the suspect. He had placed the tool bag under his left armpit, allowing his right hand to rest on the top of the bag near the zipper. One of the ground officers asked over the microphone if the higher elevation CCTVs could determine if the zipper appeared opened or closed.

  In the War Room, one of the technicians changed the magnification of the CCTV camera on the suspect to center the picture on the tool bag. The image was very clear through the high-quality camera lenses. “The zipper on the tool bag is opened. The suspect seems to be moving his hand closer to the open top.”

  DC Shepard had been standing near the center of the room. He moved quickly past Randy Fisher to the monitoring station near Constance Langhorne and picked up a desk-mounted microphone. “This is Shepard. Do you have a clean shot at the suspect?”

  Two snipers on top of the highest buildings around the square answered back within seconds. Sniper 1, positioned on top of the National Gallery, was near the front of his building overlooking the square. He had the ability to sweep the entire square with the exception of any person on the far side of the column.