Latent Hazard

by Piers Venmore-Rowland

  Over the years Dick had become used to Ted’s running commentary of the places they went by and his interpretation of what they were. The descriptions rarely changed. It helped the time slip by. There was the llama farm and then the small market town of Woodbridge, nestling on the banks of the river Deben, a favourite of Ted’s. He would recall how the Viking burial ship at Sutton Hoo on the other side of the river was worth a visit. Then it was on to Ipswich to wait for their slot behind the Norwich to London express train. The intercity train was on time. Dick eased his train through Ipswich station and the tunnel beyond. After that, it was a straight run down to Stratford on the north-eastern outskirts of London, where they would leave the main line for the North London line which would take them around London, past the marshalling yards at Willesden Junction and on to the north-west line towards Sellafield.

  When their speed limit had been 45 mph, the seventy miles from Ipswich to Stratford had taken two and a half hours, with a couple of stops to let passenger trains past. At 60 mph, the journey would be almost an hour faster and they would need only one stop to let an intercity commuter train through.

  It was approaching 8 o’clock. The early morning news channels had wall-to-wall coverage of the four terrorist attacks. The infernos and the tall columns of acrid black smoke filled the TV screens.

  When one of the journalists queried why they were being briefed by the Ministry of Defence and not the Prime Minister’s office or COBRA, they were told that the PM was on top of things and that he had scheduled an imminent COBRA meeting.

  In the Ops Room, the PM stood next to the Air Chief Marshal; he looked drawn and tired. He turned and spoke to those around him.

  ‘I’m sorry that we let a couple of missiles get through. I suppose we should be grateful that the damage has been far less than it might have been, and that our nuclear facilities are 100% intact.’

  The PM paused and looked across at his Defence Secretary. ‘We have just one terrorist and one Kornet missile launcher unaccounted for. As we don’t know where he is or what his target is, plan “A” or plan “B” has become immaterial. I’ve phoned the Permanent Secretary for Intelligence Security and Resilience and the director of Civil Contingencies. COBRA will be in session as of 9 a.m. I have told them to have experts on CBRN – chemical biological radiological nuclear – in attendance. And to have all members of ACPO (TAM) – Association of Chief Police Officers (Terrorism and Allied Matters) – available via video conference links. The Defence Secretary and I ought to get a move on so we can be there to brief them.’

  The Prime Minister turned to the chief of the armed forces. ‘Sir Nigel, I shall leave this Ops Room in your command. Your remit is to take out the fourth terrorist and disable his missile launcher. And please keep all the fleeing terrorists under close observation.’

  The PM and the Defence Secretary walked around the Ops Room and shook the hands of everyone there before leaving for Downing Street.

  He stopped briefly to have a word with the brigadier. ‘Any news from Sizewell or Grays?’

  ‘Nothing sir. We believe both are clear.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was an uneventful journey down towards London. Ted kept up his almost constant commentary which was broken only by short conversations with the manager or his assistant at the control centre. They discussed the terrorist attacks. The nuclear train convoys weren’t being stopped, just the timetables changed. The new strategy had been approved by their bosses, who deemed that ‘Their cargo posed too difficult a target and was thus an insignificant risk,’ according to the control room manager.

  The controller was in a grumpy mood; he’d been trying unsuccessfully to give up smoking and had succumbed. In his absence for a cigarette break or two, Ted spent time chatting with his assistant, a newcomer who had only started working for the nuclear transport company the Monday before. Ted was beginning to wonder if the young lad was thick. He was charming, but seemed to have little grasp of the importance of his job.

  Dick was pleased to find that the intercity train behind them was running late because that meant they could proceed to Shenfield before pulling in to let it and a commuter train pass. They were on the outskirts of London when the young assistant controller came on the radio. ‘My boss has nipped out to his car to get another packet of cigarettes and have a smoke.’

  Ted sensed unease in the young lad’s voice. ‘Are you alright?’ he enquired.

  ‘Yes, it’s just that I wish my boss would get back. I need to go for my morning constitutional – I think it was the vindaloo I had last night!’

  Ted looked across at Dick and muttered, ‘I suppose that means he’s desperate for the loo.’

  The freight train passed through Romford; it wouldn’t be long before they left the main line and started on the next leg of their journey.

  The desperate voice of the assistant came on the radio. ‘It’s no good, I can’t wait any longer. My boss should be back soon!’

  Dick raised his eyebrows and was going to speak, when Ted cut in. ‘Ah well, so long as he’s quick no one will ever know that the control centre was temporarily unmanned.’ He thought back to when he’d first driven the nuclear waste trains. The manpower involved in those early days dwarfed the lean, efficient teams that had become the norm. Spare capacity was a thing of the past. Forty uneventful years of safe nuclear rail transport had not given rise to complacency, but rather a sense of the mundane had permeated the system and dulled the minds of many involved.

  The train was approaching Stratford station. Ted radioed through to the Control Room. There was no reply; the manager hadn’t returned from his smoke and the young lad was presumably still otherwise engaged.

  As they arrived at Stratford station, the signal for the branch line turned red. Dick brought the train to a halt. As they waited, he noticed that the platforms were almost deserted. After a couple of minutes’ wait the light turned green and the train slowly trundled on to the branch line to start its way around suburban London.

  Dick smiled. It had been a good run down from Suffolk. He was looking forward to his extended journey up the west coast and wondered if Ted would, for the first time, be lost for words.

  In Manchester, Detective Inspector Rick Feldon was having a chat over breakfast with William Wesson. His fifteen years of interrogation experience told him that there was still at least one more nugget of information to be drawn from this despicable man. Wesson continued to ignore his questions – he was in denial and his defence was to shower verbal abuse on those around him. Rick was getting nowhere.

  Wesson had finished his food and was sipping his coffee. ‘Shall we see what’s going on in the world?’ asked Rick.

  A small TV was brought into the interview room. The channels were filled with special news bulletins showing wall-to-wall pictures of the plumes of smoke resulting from the terrorist attacks. Wesson looked without any apparent interest at the pictures. The detective inspector asked him more questions without receiving any response. It was getting hopeless. He was going round and round in circles. Time was ebbing away. Rick had an idea. It was time for some creative thinking. He left the room and reappeared a few minutes later with three photographs.

  Rick laid a photo of a young woman down on the table in front of Wesson. ‘She’s beautiful, isn’t she?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘She was working in the labs at Cruden Bay and suffered lethal burns. She was the wife of a man your age.’

  Then Rick turned over a picture of a random middle-aged woman on the table. ‘She’s about the same age as your mother, isn’t she? She was a good woman, strived all her life to bring up her family – a boy and a girl – by herself. She worked as a cleaner in the offices at Heysham. She was killed by flying shrapnel. A slow and painful death, I understand. Her two teenage children have no close family to look after them. What would you and your younger sister have done if your mother had been killed when you were that young?’

  Rick paused
. ‘How would you have felt if you and your sister had been fostered away from the love of your parents?’ He had tugged at an invisible chord within Wesson, who broke down in front of him. Howls of tears and sobbing came from the insufferable little man. Rick had no sympathy for him at all. He had one aim and that was to get out of him the missing pieces of information. The torrent of tears began to subside. This man is a real drama queen, thought the Inspector. It was time to up the ante. ‘Your mother rang. She wants to help.’

  Wesson raised his head.

  ‘Why couldn’t she have been the person killed by the shrapnel? She always stopped me from doing the things I wanted to and her tongue is as sharp as a carving knife. I don’t want to speak to her. In fact, I’d be happy if I never saw her again.’

  Oh shit, thought Rick, I got that one wrong. He took a deep breath.

  ‘You valued all the properties which turned out to be close to where the terrorist attacks took place. We’re missing one more address; you can help us stop the next attack.’ Wesson didn’t move.

  ‘How do you think your sister, who you’ve protected all these years, will survive as the sister of a terrorist collaborator who was responsible for the deaths of innocent people? She won’t get any sympathy from her mother, will she? If you continue to be uncooperative you’ll be charged with complicity and the book will be thrown at you. How will your sister survive against your mother, without you to defend her? Think about it.’

  Rick watched the turmoil bubbling up inside the young man in front of him. ‘Now would be a good time to tell me the address of the property we don’t know about.’

  Wesson didn’t raise his eyes. ‘All I know is that they found this property and it’s being refurbished for HFFF to occupy later this year. I don’t know whether it’s freehold or leasehold or its full address other than it’s in Stratford, East London – I’ll probably have to value it for the next set of accounts.’

  The detective inspector looked at the broken young man in front of him. ‘You must tell me more!’

  ‘I can’t! That’s as much as I know. You see, I accidentally overheard Talal and his property director discussing this property. They said it had been bought by PREH in such a way that no one would be able to trace it. Talal described it as the “jewel in the crown”; it was to be refurbished and converted into a cold store. Its location was one where they’d make a killing. They didn’t realise I was in the room behind them. When Talal saw me – his eyes were like my father’s before he lashed out and beat my sister or me. He was livid and said, “Never repeat what you’ve heard if you value your sister’s life!” ’

  Wesson got up, staggered over to the corner of the interview room and threw up. Rick thought for a moment and concluded that Wesson had told him all he knew. ‘Constable, escort Mr Wesson back to his cell. Make sure he’s got at least one person watching him twenty-four hours a day, understood?’

  Rick left the room, raced upstairs, picked up the phone and rang Kate’s direct line. After several rings the call was diverted to the switchboard.

  ‘I need to speak to DI Adams, please. It’s urgent – very urgent.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can locate her; she’s not answering her phone.’

  The seconds ticked by as if they were the last grains in an hourglass. The telephonist came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry she’s in a meeting with a minister from the Home Office.’

  ‘I need your help, please,’ said Rick calmly. ‘How can I get a message through to her or her colleague, John, as of now?’

  ‘He’s in the meeting too, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Could you write something down for me? It’s simple, just: “Urgent. Ring Me. Now! DI Feldon.” As a matter of life and death, please give this message to DI Adams.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to leave my post unless I’ve cover.’

  ‘Of course you’re not technically, but we’re trying to stop the bastards who planned the Bishopsgate bomb from letting another one off. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’ll personally give your message to DI Adams straight away.’

  The phone went dead.

  In his chauffeur-driven car en route to Downing Street, the Prime Minister thought about the events of the night. Had he been right in not activating COBRA earlier? The Ops Room at Wood Street had served its purpose and had worked well. Yes, now was the right time to get COBRA up and running.

  He mused about the far-ranging powers that the Civil Contingencies Act gave this committee. To all intents and purposes, when sitting it became all powerful. In the first instance he chaired the committee, but if he wasn’t available, it fell on the Home Secretary or his deputy to take his place. He smiled, his mind wandering briefly to how COBRA had got its name thanks to the room where the meetings were held: Cabinet Office Briefing Room A, which was deep under Number 10, Downing Street.

  The PM’s thoughts turned to his Home Secretary, whom he had chosen in order to placate the wing of his party he found most difficult to deal with. As he leaned back on the soft leather car seat, he wondered whether the Home Secretary and his department spent too much time courting favourable headlines and news coverage. In the few months since taking power he had realised that he had become increasingly anxious as to his Home Secretary’s motivation. The press painted him as good party leadership material and liked his and his ministers’ charm offensive. Perhaps his party’s wafer-thin majority had prompted his spin offensive and he was jockeying for position in case the PM slipped up.

  The PM’s attention refocused on the previous week’s COBRA meeting, which had been convened to sort out the mess left by the Bishopsgate bombing and to foil any follow-up attacks. The minutes showed it had been a straightforward meeting. It had been chaired by the number two at the Home Office, a loyal supporter of the Home Secretary, with liaison officers from the MoD, the police, MI5, MI6 and the Metropolitan police. This meeting was going to be considerably more difficult. He personally would take the chair.

  Deep under Number 10, with the Home Secretary away, his number two had taken the chair. He’d arrived at COBRA early, sensing it was his opportunity to take control. By 8.45 a.m. he had a quorum. Against the advice of the permanent secretary, he called the meeting to order and had COBRA up and running. He almost caught MI5 with their trousers down. They had the video link, relaying what was going on at COBRA to the Ops Room, working only seconds later.

  The minister chairing COBRA appeared very concerned about the impact of the adverse TV coverage and asked for suggestions on how the news stories and the TV pictures could be made to look less grim.

  The army at Hartlepool in particular were doing an impressive job. The zinc factory next to the nuclear power station was belching out acrid smoke. Elsewhere, in the words of one TV commentator at Cruden Bay, ‘The locals must think that they are on the edge of a war zone, what with all the explosions and the dense smoke.’ Aldermaston and Heysham also looked grim.

  The Home Office minister got a buzz from his time in the spotlight in front of the members of COBRA. He cleared his throat. ‘First, we counter these awful pictures with something that will prevent us from looking feeble and, second, we consider what the terrorists will do next and what can be done to stop them. The second part, I shall leave to the PM who will be joining us shortly.’

  Neil Gunton, Jeremy’s boss, had, unexpectedly, been asked to attend the meeting. He was sitting there getting more and more annoyed by the self-obsessed minister’s lack of progress, but managed to disguise his feelings reasonably well.

  The minister turned to the Metropolitan Police representative and asked, ‘What do we know of these terrorist attacks and the likely direction of future attacks?’

  ‘I’m unable to brief you fully. The anti-terrorist response is being conducted by the City of London police and MI5. We do not yet have the full details,’ came the reply.

  The minister didn’t like that answer. ‘I’ve been getting reports that the armed forces are on full alert in response to a large,
nil-notice training exercise ordered by the PM. Is this true?’ he asked irritably. Turning to the special services officer sitting next to Neil, he asked, ‘Would you know anything about this?’

  The SAS officer shrugged his shoulders and remained silent.

  The minister turned his attention back to Neil. ‘You and your boss were at Wood Street last night, weren’t you?’ It sounded like an accusation.

  ‘No, sir,’ came the reply, ‘I was interviewing two suspects at MI5.’

  ‘Can you enlighten us as to what’s going on?’ added the minister.

  ‘Things are rather sketchy at the moment,’ replied Neil.

  The minister was not pleased; the tone of his voice betrayed his annoyance. ‘When can we expect the Prime Minister to brief us?’

  Neil left the answer to the permanent secretary.

  ‘I am informed he’ll be here at 9 o’clock, Minister.’

  ‘We need a distraction to deflect the TV coverage and show the public that we’re playing hard ball with the terrorists. I have a colleague working on this. Do I hear any other suggestions?’

  ‘Perhaps COBRA should start vetting everything going on air, as was the case in Iraq?’

  The minister thought that this was a good idea. ‘We should implement this now.’ He turned to his colleague, a junior minister, who had come up with the idea. ‘Derek, would you please look after this personally?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Derek stood up to leave, when the door opened and the Prime Minister walked in with the Defence Secretary and his personal secretary at his side. The PM, as the screen at Wood Street showed, beckoned Derek to sit down, strode over and stood facing the minister.