Here Be Dragons: A Short Story

by Sharon Bolton

  Millennium Bridge.

  Twenty-two minutes to go.

  Blackfriars Bridge. Lacey moves restlessly beneath the tarpaulin.

  ‘Get that cover off them. If they suffocate under there, your bargaining power sinks without a trace.’

  Assaf nods his permission, and the tarpaulin is dragged off Fred and Lacey. Fred is bright red; even Lacey looks unhealthily pink. Both are breathing heavily. Both are beginning to look very scared.

  Enough is enough. Joesbury speaks up.

  ‘Fellas, I have no idea where I’m going. I need to do exactly what this crew have been instructed, report in when they’re expected to, or the game’s up.’

  At a nod from Assaf, Malouf crouches down and pulls the tape off Fred’s mouth.

  Fred sucks at a spot on his lower lip where the skin has been removed by the tape. ‘We’re heading up towards Westminster,’ he says. ‘We’re covering the south bank, expecting big crowds tonight. Then we’re going to cover the exclusion zone while a reception takes place on the House of Commons terrace.’

  Joesbury knows that Fred isn’t telling them everything. Fred has always been a crap poker player.

  Assaf isn’t convinced either. He aims a kick, catches Joesbury’s uncle on the hip. ‘And the rest. We already know, by the way. This is for the new skipper’s benefit.’

  ‘That’s all we’ve got. We were told we’d get further instructions once we’re in the vicinity of Westminster.’

  Assaf bends down, and with a small knife he’d had concealed in a pocket, cuts the tape fastening Lacey’s hands. He pulls her left hand out, pins it down on the floor of the RIB and presses the knife blade against her index finger.

  ‘Fred!’ Joesbury yells.

  ‘OK, OK!’ Sweat is breaking out on Fred’s forehead. ‘At 20.30 hours, we go across the river to Waterloo Pier. We pick up two passengers and their escorts and take them back to the House of Commons to meet their mother.’

  Waterloo Pier is directly below the London Eye. Two passengers, important enough to have escorts and be driven across the river by a Met police boat? To meet their mother.

  Oh no. Oh shit, no.

  He can’t quite picture the President’s daughters but knows they were two little girls on the day their father entered office. They’ll be older now, but not much.

  Two young girls, in the hands of men like these.

  They pass beneath London Bridge and Joesbury can see the London Eye. Never before has it looked menacing.

  Westminster is the next bridge. They are just minutes away. The Thames flows endlessly towards them, its frothy, gold-tipped waves bouncing playfully amongst the pleasure boats and working vessels.

  How could he have got it so wrong? There will be no big distraction. No fire on the bridge. No plans to storm the Palace of Westminster. No gunfight. No high-speed escape upriver.

  Just an unspeakable crime against two little girls.

  ‘So what are we talking? Murder or kidnap?’

  Whatever they’re planning, no one answers him.

  There are long queues to get on the London Eye tonight but one capsule, just lifting away from the landing stage, seems emptier than the others. Joesbury can see men in suits, but he’s probably just imagining the two small, slim figures with dark hair and bright summer dresses in their midst.

  And across the river, a woman holds a pair of binoculars to her eyes, watching her daughters, without a clue that she might never see them face to face again.

  The RIB leaves the warm sunlight behind to pass beneath the shadow of the bridge and emerges into an evening that, in Joesbury’s head at least, has turned very dark. Seventeen minutes to go until the pick-up.

  Around him, Joesbury sees the terrorists assuming positions. Haddad fixes binoculars on the terrace. Malouf has a similar pair directed towards the giant wheel, no doubt focusing on one particular capsule slowly making its way towards the top.

  ‘I can see her. She’s watching,’ says Haddad.

  ‘I’ve got them,’ says Malouf.

  Assaf takes a mobile phone in a bright turquoise flotation case from his pocket and looks at the screen. Only Kouri is watching Joesbury now, but neither his gaze nor his gun wavers.

  Fourteen minutes until they have to set off for the Eye pier, to be waiting for the two girls as they leave the capsule. Except this thing isn’t happening in fourteen minutes. It’s happening now. The four men are trembling with tension.

  And there are still three members of this gang whom Joesbury has yet to meet. Three men who have spent months infiltrating the House of Commons staff; who are there now, waiting. This cannot just be about kidnapping the two girls and racing upriver with them.

  He looks at Lacey and Fred, as though either of them might have the answer, and looks away again quickly. Her hands free now, Lacey has edged closer to Fred and is trying to loosen his hands too. He can tell from the way they are sitting tight together, from the jerking movements her shoulders are making as she concentrates hard on a task that is taking place behind her back. Whilst there’s a chance they can get free, he must not draw any attention to them.

  Just him, then.

  Joesbury thinks back to the night on the river, holding the RIB in exactly this spot. He remembers eyes flicking backwards and forwards, from the palace to the – what? He’d assumed the gang was planning a distraction on the bridge.

  He looks that way now, but beyond the bridge, to the Eye. They weren’t looking at the bridge the other night, they were looking at the Eye. Something is going to happen to the London Eye.

  Beenie’s words, treacherous, but maybe with a grain of truth. Mate, these guys have been working on this for months.

  Assaf looks at his watch, at the display on the mobile phone. His hands are trembling. These guys are waiting for something to happen to the Eye.

  A suicide bomber would never get through Security, would never get anywhere near the capsule the girls are in. The wheel itself is an incredibly strong structure, it would take a massive explosion at ground level to have a hope of impacting on the capsules and, besides, the girls are drawing closer to the top, getting further from the ground with every second.

  Joesbury closes his eyes, praying for inspiration. He opens them and stares at his hands, white with tension, on the steering wheel.

  He remembers Beenie again, trying to throw him off track with talk about destroying the barrier. Relatively small explosives at the most vulnerable point of each lift mechanism.

  If you want to take something out, you attack its weakest point.

  The wheel, though, is a structure with no obvious weak point. A wheel is a construct of equal strength around its entire circumference. How do you attack a wheel?

  You break it away from its column.

  Exert enough force and the wheel in his hands would break away from the column holding it to the boat, becoming useless. He turns back to the Eye. A modest explosion in the spindle that fixes the wheel to its supporting uprights would rupture the connection.

  This is something they’ve been planning for months.

  The structure will be maintained regularly. Engineers will have access to the spindle. The explosives could have been left in it months ago. The man at his side, with his eyes trained on the capsule that is just about to reach the highest point, is about to dial the combination on his phone and trigger the explosion.

  Joesbury has never thought as fast before in his life.

  When the spindle is compromised, the weight of the wheel and its thirty-two capsules will be too great for the restraining wires to hold. The wheel will fall, probably quite slowly at first, because the wires will snap one at a time, but inevitably, because no force on earth could halt that propulsion once it begins. The wheel will fall and hit the surface of the river.

  Lacey gives a tiny, almost imperceptible jerk, and he sees a flash of triumph in her eyes. Fred is free. Both of them can move now, although their ankles are still bound. Sweat is pouring down Joesbury’s back
.

  When the wheel hits the river, one of two things will happen. Either it will sink immediately and those people who aren’t killed in the fall will drown long before emergency services can cut them free. Or – and this is quite possibly the worst of the two alternatives – the wheel will stay afloat for a while and will drift off downstream. Its slow passage down the river will be witnessed by thousands of people on the banks, and millions around the world as the footage is inevitably captured, and the slow deaths of hundreds of people will be watched by the entire planet.

  And on the House of Commons terrace, the Prime Minister’s guest of honour will see her daughters plummet over four hundred feet to their death.

  If he moves, Kouri will shoot him.

  Joesbury looks frantically towards the terrace, as though he might warn the First Lady, and remembers the three terrorists waiting in there. Why are they there? Why are he, and Lacey and Fred, and this gang of murdering bastards on the river at all? The explosion could be activated from anywhere. Finally, the full truth hits him.

  The blowing-up of the London Eye is not the worst thing that will happen this evening. It’s just the distraction.

  10

  THE SILKEN GOLD ribbon of the Thames still winds its way past riverside apartments, government buildings, ancient guildhalls and peering churches, neither knowing nor caring that disaster is about to strike. And Joesbury stands frozen at the helm of the RIB, without a clue how he will stop it.

  There are men on the Commons terrace now, waiting for all hell to break loose. There are men on this boat who will leap ashore, arm their comrades and – what?

  The First Lady. It can only be about her. She won’t have the same armed protection as her husband, she will be an easier target. Having just seen her two children plummet towards certain death, confronted by uniformed police offering to take her on the river, to get her close to her daughters, she will go with them. Of course she will.

  When people you love are in danger, when those who mean more to you than life are facing death, you cease to care about your own safety. You will do anything.

  The First Lady will board the RIB and be taken not downstream to offer a thread of comfort to her trapped, terrified, drowning daughters, but upriver to where a helicopter is waiting.

  ‘What are you going to do to the First Lady?’

  He doesn’t expect to be answered, so is surprised when Assaf speaks.

  ‘She will be flown to a secure location and executed at midnight. The execution will be streamed live on the internet. The world will watch as we complete the destruction of the most powerful man on the planet.’

  Joesbury has never fainted, but he wonders if he might be about to. He is suddenly unbearably hot. The world is pitching, tossing, he is going to be sick. He looks at the one thing that might hold his head together right now. Lacey’s face. He expects to see the horror in his eyes reflected in hers. He hopes for some sympathy, some understanding. There is nothing he can do. He is powerless to prevent this. He will look into Lacey’s eyes as the world ends.

  There is no sympathy there. She is furious. He’s never seen her so mad.

  And she’s trying to tell him something. She’s looking down at her life jacket, at Fred’s, at his. Her left hand, out of sight of everyone but him, is making jerking, twisting movements. Tipping movements.

  She wants him to tip the RIB.

  She and Fred are wearing life jackets. So is he. The terrorists are not.

  Joesbury has no idea how much time he has, but the capsule containing the girls is two places from the very top. A large pleasure steamer is heading their way, faster than it really should, creating a large wash. It is the chance he needs.

  ‘Shit. We’ve got to move. Hold on, guys.’ He fires up the engines, pushes the throttle and the RIB leaps forward.

  ‘What the fuck?’ The men have grabbed hold of the boat to steady themselves, but Haddad’s gun is up against Lacey’s head.

  ‘Oil drum in the water.’ Joesbury has to shout to make himself heard. ‘I need to circle round. Calm down, everyone. No one panic.’

  They are panicking. They are trying to keep their sightlines on the Eye, on the terrace, trying to hold on to the fast-moving, circling craft. They are attracting attention now: people on the terrace are watching, another Met boat is heading towards them, the radio crackles.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Joesbury sees Assaf slip the wrist strap of the mobile phone over his hand. Too late to back out now.

  Joesbury straightens his course, presses the throttle right down and heads for the wash of the pleasure boat. A split second before he hits it, he spins the wheel and the RIB strikes the wash sideways. It tips. For a second it teeters. Then it goes over.

  Joesbury hits the water and sinks as the kill cord around his wrist cuts the engines. He is fully submerged, with no idea which way is up, but as he peers into the black water for bubbles to follow his jacket inflates and sends him up.

  Fred and Lacey’s jackets will be doing the same, but they do not have full use of their legs. Their life jackets will keep them afloat but they could still drown quickly.

  And Assaf still has the mobile phone that will trigger the explosion.

  He breaks the surface and sees the sky.

  ‘Lacey!’

  The London Eye is still upright. Still turning.

  ‘Mark!’

  He hears her voice before he sees her, but she must be close. Then he hears her scream and finds her. Ten metres away, a little further upstream, slightly closer to the north bank. She isn’t alone in the water.

  Assaf is clinging to her, using her life jacket to stay afloat himself. She is striking out at his head, his face, the hand that is clutching at her, hitting him repeatedly with her fists in a way that will exhaust her in minutes. Assaf doesn’t strike back, he can’t, his right hand is holding the turquoise-clad phone out of the water. He is trying to reach the keys.

  In a fast front crawl, Joesbury strikes out towards the north bank, knowing the tide will bring the two of them upon him in seconds. It is possible Assaf hasn’t seen him.

  Five metres.

  Assaf risks taking his left hand from Lacey’s jacket to punch in the code, but he must have his legs wrapped around her because they stay pinned together. Her face goes under.

  Three metres.

  Assaf’s finger makes contact with the phone’s screen.

  Two metres.

  Joesbury kicks at the water, surges upwards and lands on Assaf’s shoulders. He pulls him backwards, holding on with one hand, striking hard at the man’s face with the other. They go down beneath the surface and black water claims them.

  Assaf is punching and kicking to break free. The life jacket isn’t big enough to keep two large men afloat and they are sinking deeper into the dark gloom. Knowing he is almost out of air, Joesbury holds Assaf’s right arm tightly. He finds the strap of the phone, wraps his fingers around it and pulls hard. It comes free. He kicks out once, hard, with both feet and he is alone in the water.

  Still clutching the phone, his lungs convulsing, he breaks the surface for the second time.

  The London Eye is still turning, and two of the most important children in the world are heading slowly back down to earth.

  A wave lifts him and he sees Lacey, looking completely at home in the river. She’s managed to free her legs and is swimming a slow elegant crawl to where Fred, a few yards downstream, is flapping frantically to keep his head above water.

  Tucking the phone safely inside his pocket, Joesbury swims towards them. Just before he reaches them he spots a lifeboat heading their way. He waves, sees an answering signal, and grabs hold of Fred’s jacket.

  ‘Lovely night for a dip,’ he says, before turning to Lacey.

  The last words he hears before they are plucked from the river are his uncle’s.

  ‘Well, I hope you’re not planning to kiss me too, you daft git.’

  11

  THE RECEPTION ROOM at Numbe
r Ten Downing Street, the London home of the British Prime Minister, is painted in soft shades of yellow and rich warm cream. Portraits of illustrious personages hang on the walls, but the eyes of the guests tonight are drawn to the four people on the receiving line. The tall, dark-haired PM and his elegant wife, a slender, darkskinned man who is generally acknowledged to be the most powerful man in the world, and the woman at his side, who might look poised but whose hands have not stopped shaking for days, and who wakes several times a night stifling a scream.

  Mark Joesbury, in the suit he hasn’t worn since he was best man at his brother’s wedding five years ago, waits patiently in line for his turn. He shakes the Prime Minister’s hand, then that of his wife.

  ‘Mr President, this is Detective Inspector Mark Joesbury of Scotland Yard and Constable Lacey Flint of the Marine Policing Unit.’ The usher stands just to one side, introducing all the guests as they are greeted by the President. ‘The two officers were chosen at random this evening to represent the service that is charged with your protection during your official visits.’

  The President holds out his hand and says, ‘Good to see you, Mr Joesbury. Constable Flint, glad you could come. You guys always do such a good job of looking after us. I can’t remember the last time we had anything to worry about.’ Joesbury is sure he catches the glimpse of a wink.

  Within an hour of being pulled out of the river, Joesbury learned that no one, outside of a very small circle, would ever know what had so very nearly happened that night. Beenie and Rich had disappeared completely, as had Safar; Assaf, Haddad, Kouri and Malouf had all drowned in the river. There would be no trial, no need for the affair ever to become public knowledge.