by Colin Forbes
As Tweed stood up, escorted him to the door, Sarge turned and shook hands. His grip was firm and above the scarf his eyes stared into his host's. Tweed knew what he was doing. He was shaking hands for what might be the last time - in case either one or both did not survive.
'Now,' remarked Tweed when Sarge had gone, 'I wish I knew the identity of the leader. Who really is Abdullah?'
'Abdullah?' Paula queried.
'I had a brief phone call a while ago. Informing me the head of al-Qa'eda was Abdullah. The voice of the caller was using a distorter so I couldn't tell whether it was a man or a woman.'
'And you believed the caller?'
'Yes. Now I must go down and see how Billy Hogarth is getting on. Later we all leave here on motor-bikes. Harry has hired several extra. We must take up our first firing position at dusk, being in place by dark.
'One more sad aspect.' He turned before opening the door. 'I took up the fate of Proctor, the guard at Dick's wharf, held prisoner. As you heard me do so. Sarge was emphatic, was he not, that we cannot risk alerting the al-Qa'eda cell before they attack. I had already come to the same decision.'
'That really is awful,' Paula said. 'His wife has been saved but he will die.'
'Finally,' Tweed told them before leaving, 'the Minister has invited me to meet him at his house in Carpford tomorrow morning at ten o'clock for what he ghoulishly describes as an inquest.' He extracted an envelope from his pocket. 'This, sent by courier, is what Monica handed me before she left the office. I shall accept and be there.'
'By yourself, you mean?' Paula asked.
'No. The invitation names only me, but I'm sure others will be there. Palfry for one. Also Superintendent Buchanan. So my whole team will come with me, whether they are welcome or not. You'd better get dressed hadn't you, for what is to come . . .'
The phone rang. Tweed paused, then picked it up. He listened, ended the call, looked at Paula and Beaurain.
'Something unexpected. A Mr Margesson has arrived downstairs. From the description it is our Margesson from Carpford . . .'
He gave them a little salute and went downstairs. Paula stared at Newman.
'What on earth is going on?'
Marler, Harry and Pete arrived in the office, loaded down with clothing. Black outfits with the large white SIS on the backs. Marler had even found an outfit which perfectly fitted the tall Beaurain.
Paula had donned hers before the others. She stood in front of a tall mirror attached to the wall, pulled down the jacket, studied the result quickly. The outfit was black leather. It had a psychological effect on her. Now she couldn't wait to reach the Embankment. She then slipped on one of the green oilskins which concealed what she wore underneath.
'You looked very come-hitherish in black leather,' Newman teased her.
'More than I can say for you.'
'Well, you'll be travelling on my motor-cycle, riding pillion, so you'll just have to put up with it. Mind you clasp me firmly round the waist.'
'The things I do for England.'
It had taken them a while for everyone to put on the kit. Pete Nield had trouble getting himself comfortable. They were all completely dressed when Tweed walked in. He immediately began to put on his own outfit without saying a word. Paula thought he looked exceptionally grim.
'It was our Margesson,' he announced when he had dressed. 'He is staying here the night. Monica is making the room Howard's secretary works in comfortable. With George downstairs, like Billy Hogarth he will be safe.'
'You really are looking very grim,' Paula remarked.
'Time to go,' he replied. 'Look out of the window. It will soon be dusk. We will soon know the outcome.'
47
Paula knew she would never forget the motor-cycle cavalcade ride which took them down on to the Embankment. It was still daylight, on the edge of dusk. Newman led the way after being given the exact route to follow by Buchanan on the phone.
Each machine carried a yellow flag fluttering in the wind which had sprung up. The moment a police checkpoint in the distance saw them coming they cleared the way, forcing irate motorists to drive up on to pavements.
All the motor-cyclists had their lights full on. In the beams she saw a chaos of traffic worse then any she'd ever seen before. Insults were shouted at them by some motorists., while others made rude gestures. If only you lot knew what we're trying to save you from, Paula thought.
Suddenly they were close to Westminster Bridge. It then became a strange dream — nightmare? No street lights along the Embankment. Dusk had fallen and she realized a moon was rising. Had they allowed for this unwanted illumination?
Newman sped along the dark escarpment which was the Embankment. Even though she knew the firing-points, Paula could see no sign anywhere of the SAS. They had to be in position but were invisible. The wind ruffled the surface of the swift-moving river. Had they taken into account the effect a wind like this might have? she wondered. It had not been forecast.
Arriving at the elevated plinth with the statue, Newman parked his machine against the inner kerb, jumped off as Harry arrived behind him. Normally so nimble, Paula was beaten to the top of the plinth by Harry. He immediately pulled back the protective canvas, handed her a sub-machine gun and extra ammo. He also gave her a radio headset to put on.
'We have total communication with the SAS and Buchanan's anti-terrorist mob on the other shore,' he told her. 'Get that microphone closer to your mouth.'
Tweed had arrived on the plinth. Like Paula, he threw off his oilskin so his leather clothes were exposed. He attached a headset. He was followed by Newman and Marler, carrying his Armalite rifle. Nield joined them. He had thrown off his oilskin on the pavement and accepted a sub-machine gun from Harry.
'Is this radio system completely safe, secure?' asked Paula.
She had a shock. Not realizing her words had passed into her microphone. A voice she recognized as Sarge's replied, as calm as if this were an exercise.
'Completely secure, Paula. We have a genius who produced it.'
'Thank you . . .'
'One more warning,' Sarge continued, 'when a transport goes down or is disabled, we may face motorized dinghies - or even small speedboats - heading for the shore. Assume all the men inside them will be suicide bombers - because they will be. Over and out . . .'
Only then did it occur to Paula that Sarge's words would be heard by several score men waiting on both sides of the river. And anything she said. She decided to do it.
'There's a very strong wind. Not forecast. It may affect the steering of the transports.'
'Good point,' Sarge replied. 'I was just going to make it myself. Assume it will be a circus. Those who can throw a good distance - and accurately — may wish to use grenades on any hostile craft approaching.'
'Here you are,' said Harry, one hand over his mike so what he was saying wouldn't fog up communications. With his other hand he gave Paula a heavy satchel. When she looked inside inside she saw a collection of grenades. She slung the satchel over her shoulder, checked her submachine gun by the light of the moon.
'We overlooked the strength of the moon,' Sarge warned. 'It may be a help or a hindrance. We'll find out, won't we?'
Sarge was clever, Paula thought. He used 'transports' as opposed to 'barges'. It suggested to her he was not one hundred per cent convinced about the security of their communications.
'Pete and I,' said Harry, one hand still blocking his mike, 'are going down to the edge of the Embankment. If any try to come ashore we'll be closer to them . . .'
Saying which, he leapt off the plinth, a satchel of grenades over his shoulder, sub-machine gun in one hand, followed by Pete. Crossing the Embankment, they crouched behind the wall.
'I think we're ready for anything,' said Beaurain, who spoke only rarely.
'Famous last words,' back came the comment from Sarge.
Beaurain was crouched behind the statue, which loomed above them. For the first time Paula wondered who had merited the hon
our of the stone figure on horseback. Some general who had commanded in some long-ago war. Now he was hardly noticed. Pass beyond your time and you became a footnote in history. Such was the juggernaut passage of life.
'Exbar is now leaving station,' a strange voice came over her headset.
Exbar? Must be the code-word for the six barges. They were on the move. She felt Tweed, standing close to her, stiffen. He was wondering whether they had the sequence right. Paula checked the illuminated face of her watch. 4.35 p.m. Al-Qa'eda had started their attack early.
'Get ready.' Sarge's voice. 'Up here it should be a while yet. If we are right,' he added ominously.
Paula's nerves had earlier rattled her, a normal experience. Now she was cold. Her eyes were fixed on Westminster Bridge, the first place their barge would appear. If we are right. She extracted a water-bottle from her new shoulder-bag which she always carried, containing the Browning. She sipped cold water, swilled it round her mouth, then swallowed. Might be the last chance for a drink.
Inside the managing director's room at Dick's wharf, Proctor was still tied hand and foot to the heavy chair. Earlier the ropes round his arms had been unfastened so he could exercise them. The same method had been used so he could exercise his legs later.
They had also fed their captive and provided him with water and tea. No humanitarian reasons prompted Ali to arrange these measures. It was important to keep Proctor fresh and alert. Then if Dixon phoned him he would be able to reply in a normal way.
Ali now came into the room and went over to Proctor. He had decided he would command barge No. 5, the barge which would bring down Chelsea Bridge. By then, destroying Albert Bridge would be a walkover. He bent down close to his prisoner, waved away the large ugly-looking guard.
'Mr Proctor, when we have completed what we must do we will leave you here. Then, when we are well away from this area, we will phone your wife and ask her to arrange for the police to come here at once. To release you . . .'
Proctor simply looked at him. By now he hated all these Arabs, would gladly have killed every single one, given the chance.
Ali beckoned to the huge guard, spoke to him in Arabic, well away from Proctor.
'When you see the last barge about to leave, men casting off the ropes, you will shoot your captive. A bullet in the head to make sure. A rope ladder will hang over the hull of the barge, waiting to haul you aboard before it sails. But for the moment we must keep him calm . . .'
Had Paula been able to witness the appalling cruelty of Ali's tactic and had a knife in her hand, she would not have hesitated to plunge it up to the hilt into Ali's chest.
5.05 p.m. The tide was turning. Paula had taken a pair of very small powerful binoculars from her shoulder-bag. They were adapted for night use, so everything came up green. She had them focused on Westminster Bridge.
Sarge had earlier confirmed that the 'transports' were moving downriver. That so far no bridge had been attacked, that they were spread apart at a greater distance than expected. So it was looking as though they had the sequence right.
'Here it comes,' said Tweed quietly.
'Red alert,' Sarge ordered.
In the lenses of her glasses Paula saw the huge bows of the barge slowly passing under Westminster Bridge. It seemed larger than the barges she had once seen proceeding upriver. A massive beast.
She frowned, adjusted the focus, pressed her eyes closer to the lenses. She was focused on the bows as the vessel was caught by a large wave, whipped up by the strong wind. She frowned.
'Main hatch open,' she reported. 'But there's some kind of machine or weapon in the bows. It appears to be angled at the main struts holding up the bridges. On deck. At the bows. Looks like a small cannon or missile launcher.'
'Thank you,' said Sarge. 'Thank you very much.'
Perched on the wall of his firing-point, camouflaged with branches, was a large weapon which looked like a mortar.
Below the barrel was a projection which emitted a laser beam on the pressing of a lever. It was brand new, an advanced version the rest of the army did not possess, didn't even know existed.
Close to it was a smaller version with an even longer barrel, narrower than the large mortar. It too was equipped with another muzzle beneath the main one, the barrel of which also emitted a laser beam.
Closing down his radio set, Sarge walked over to the second operator, in charge of the smaller weapon. He bent down, talking quietly.
'There's a second weapon aboard the barge. On deck, at the bows. When Charlie fires his bomb you shoot a missile at the second target, equally dangerous.' He handed the operator his night-glasses. 'See if you can spot it. On deck. At the bows.'
'I see it,' the operator replied.
'You have to synchronize the firings.' He looked up at the operator's partner. 'Up to you, Ned - drop in the missile at the same moment.'
'We can manage that,' said the senior operator, who would adjust the aim of his weapon. 'Reckon so, Ed?'
Ed, the man who would drop the main bomb into the mortar, had been leaning over, listening. He just nodded. They would cope.
Paula couldn't take her eyes off the huge barge, now fully in view, riding the waves on its way to Waterloo Bridge. 'It would have been so much easier if the river were smooth,' she said, then remembered she was speaking into the mike.
'It would,' Sarge's voice agreed. 'But we'll still make it. Thanks to you . . .'
Tweed put a reassuring hand on Paula's shoulder. Beaurain crouched lower, as the barge would soon be opposite the SAS firing-point. Not knowing about the special equipment at the SAS's disposal, he had his doubts.
Marler came alongside her, holding his Armalite. He was expecting trouble. She could tell from his expression. He glanced at her.
'Don't forget the grenades . . .'
He was still speaking when the full length of the barge arrived opposite the SAS firing-point. She raised her night-glasses., pressed them to her eyes just in time. A large shell-like object streaked in an arc over the water, dropped down the hatch. At the same moment a missile hit the weapon stationed in the bows. She wasn't ready. Wasn't ready for the titanic explosions. The barge shuddered under the impact. The Shockwave thumped against the plinth. She jumped, steadied herself.
The bows dipped into the river, stayed dipped. The roll-over deck was hurled into the air in three large pieces, fell back into the river with a large splash. The barge was now moving sluggishly, the half-sunk bows slowing it so that it was almost stationary. It was going nowhere.
'Watch out!' Sarge's warning voice. 'They're coming.'
Motorized dinghies were being slung over the side of the hull, attached to ropes. Black turbaned men were sliding down the ropes into the dinghies. Motors roared, then they were heading directly towards the plinth. At least a dozen dinghies and one small speedboat, churning up water as it tore towards them.
All hell was heading for the Embankment.
Paula hadn't seen Harry carrying a rocket launcher down to the wall. He rammed it into his shoulder. The speedboat had four men aboard, some waving savage-looking knives. Harry took careful aim, fired the rocket. It curved, dropped, bull's-eye on the speedboat.
The craft exploded. Everything became fragments. Fragments of speedboat, fragments of the men who had been aboard. Paula jumped off the plinth, ran down to support Harry and Pete. Beaurain was beside her. Dinghies were racing to where Harry and Pete crouched.
Something bloody and fleshy landed on the Embankment near Paula. She glanced at it. Beaurain stared, frowned.
'Most of a man's stomach,' she told him.
'You know that?' he shouted.
'I've attended autopsies.'
'So have I.'
Beaurain was impressed with the steeliness and calmness Paula was displaying under fire.
Three dinghies, spread well apart, were racing to the Embankment. Nield, moving his sub-machine gun in an arc, sprayed two of them. As his bullets hit, the explosives strapped round the Arabs explo
ded. There was a deafening roar. Arabs and dinghies vanished. Something small and white landed on the wall in front of Paula. A fragment of one of the devastated dinghies.
More dinghies raced towards the Embankment. Again well spaced out. Harry let loose a burst. Nield was firing at the same time. More deafening explosions. Paula aimed her sub-machine gun at a dinghy which had pulled ahead of the others. For a moment she could see their savage faces illuminated by moonlight. She pressed the trigger. The faces, the heads, were no longer there. Another explosion. No dinghy. The stretch of river sweeping past had a reddish colour.
To their left a dinghy had reached the Embankment wall. Two men scrambled over the wall. They had seen the group below the plinth. They elevated their Kalashnikovs. Beaurain had seen them. He aimed his sub-machine gun, was startled to see one man throw up his Kalashnikov, collapsing backwards. He pressed the trigger. A storm of bullets hit the second man like a hurricane.
