“Up there now,” Partington said suddenly, giving his torch an upwards flick.
“What?”
“The river.”
Shard examined the walls in the torchlight. Dry enough, in spite of the overall feeling of pervasive damp. Dry and solid, well down in the river bed: wrong tree? Without a doubt, the feeling of solidarity argued against success for terrorism. Partington expanded on the flood-holding devices, never yet used. Vastly thick doors, iron filled with concrete, electrically operated by remote control, would descend through heavy rubber seals from the roof to slot down firmly into the floor of the track, at either side of the Thames.
He showed Shard where: there was little visible evidence of the descent slots. The seals were flush, grimed to be as one with the tunnel’s basic construction.
Shard asked, “What do you really think?”
“Whatever I think,” was Partington’s grim reply, “it’s not only the best we can do, it’s all we can do — at this stage.”
“It’s not enough.” Shard took the torch himself, looked long and close, then shook his head. “It’s too bloody vulnerable! It’ll jam up in the first split-second after the explosion.”
“You sound as if we’re beaten before it starts.”
Shard gave a ghost of a laugh. “In a sense, one always is! Have you ever heard of an unsuccessful attempt by terrorists?”
“As a matter of fact, yes, I have. They haven’t always pulled it off — not when aircraft have been involved, anyway.”
Shard grinned without humour. “I’ll tell you something, Mr Partington: when aircraft have been involved, there’s been a definite requirement on the part of the hijackers. This time, we’re not dealing with hijackers. And a tube tunnel isn’t Heathrow, or Kennedy.” He shone the beam down along the track, into the endless gloom. “We’ll get back up top. This place … it gives me the creeps.”
*
Hedge, for once disdaining the telephone, had come on a stamp-buying mission to Seddon’s Way, in person. On arrival he’d slumped into a rickety chair, looking grey rather than pink, a bowler hat still on his head and his umbrella clasped like a Boy Scout’s stave, upright from the floor. He had ticked Shard off about the importuning, realistically.
“A bad show, you know.”
“Now look here —”
“Oh, I’m not accusing you of doing it! But you should be much more circumspect.”
“If I want to make a date?”
Hedge glowered. “Don’t joke, I don’t like it. You know very well what I mean. It’s your job not to arouse suspicions, isn’t it?”
Shard blew out a long breath. “Yes, Hedge. I’m sorry, Hedge, three bags full. Rebuke accepted. Now — what have you come about?”
Hedge coughed, sneezed loudly, brought out his handkerchief and blew his nose. “Larger’s dead,” he said.
“What?” Shard half rose, holding the arms of his chair.
“I thought that would shake you.” Hedge smirked.
“Oh, get on with it! Dead — his heart?”
“Yes. A scalpel in it. Murdered, my dear fellow. He’s not going to talk now, is he?” Hedge explained, his tone heavy with undeserved blame: he always had to have someone to blame, and Shard disliked undeserved blame as much as anyone else. There was nothing he, Shard, could have done to safeguard Larger in an intensive care unit, especially from London. York police were not incapable of managing their own affairs, would not have appreciated nanny on the telephone. Just the same, a blow was a blow; and Shard, pondering on the fresh killings, wondered how he’d come to be so lucky himself — maybe he was being preserved for a good reason, a deal or a safeguard, a handy bargaining counter if, one day, he were taken alive: who could tell? Meanwhile Hedge was talking on. “Mean to say you’ve not read the newspapers?”
“No, I haven’t. They’ve got Larger’s death, have they?”
“They have, in the Stop Press. God alone knows what the evenings would have said if I hadn’t stepped in,” Hedge said fervently. “The Stop Press merely reported a hospital killing — I’ve put a security clamp on the details. We don’t want a sensation and a lot of questions just now, do we?” He blew his nose once again. “What about the tube tunnels, Shard? Find anything, did you?”
“They were as bare as a whore’s bottom.”
“Shard, please.”
“You didn’t expect me to find anything, did you?”
“Well — no, perhaps not. But did you form any conclusions, any —”
“Only depressing ones.” Shard told Hedge all about his night walk beneath London and its river, about his reservations regarding the effectiveness of the anti-flood precautions. “Last war,” he said briefly. “Times have moved on. Back in the war, at the time of the blitz that is, they weren’t thinking in terms of nuclear explosions.”
“True.” Hedge gnawed anxiously at his lower lip. “What do we do about Larger, Shard?”
“Bury him, presumably.”
“You know what I mean!”
“Yes, I do.” Shard rubbed at tired, red-rimmed eyes: last night, no sleep at all. “I don’t see any point in my going north again, not unless I get some leads from York police. I think we have to forget Larger, Hedge.”
“We’ve got to do something!”
“I shall be,” Shard said. “With your approval, of course.”
“Well?”
“We haven’t got far, working from the outside in. It’s time we worked from the inside out, and that’s what I propose doing. To do it, I’ll need to denude the department of all officers, Hedge. I’ll need them all to work with me.”
“Whatever you say,” Hedge said.
“Thanks! I’ve already been in touch with Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine, pending your okay. There’ll be the fullest co-operation from the Yard and from Partington of London Transport —”
“Doing what, Shard?”
“I’m joining in with what Hesseltine and Partington are already doing: watching in situ. I’m going underground, Hedge, till this thing’s over. I want to catch them all red-handed.”
*
When Hedge had gone, Shard rang Beth. “You’d be better off to do as I suggested,” he said. “It’s going to continue this way for a while yet.”
“How long, Simon?”
“I can’t say. Long enough I shouldn’t wonder —”
“I’d sooner stay.”
“I’d sooner you went, Beth. Really.”
She said, with an uneasy laugh. “You do sound anxious, Simon darling!”
“I am. I worry about you — about not getting back when I say, I mean —”
“I’m quite used to that.”
“Sure — I know. But I wish you’d go. Your mother would be pleased.”
“Oh, Simon!” There was chiding in her tone for fairly obvious reasons. “As a matter of fact, Mummy thinks I ought to stay and look after you —”
“Does she? Now just you bloody well listen to me!” Shard said energetically and much more loudly than he had intended, “you’re going and that’s an order — no more arguments —” He stopped: there had been a click, a sound of finality. She had hung up on him; something she had never done before. Shard’s face flamed, his jaw tightened. He didn’t like this, but he wasn’t going to call back — not just yet anyway. The mind of a detective slid into gear, personal-problemwise: he’d sounded — maybe — more demanding than was his custom with his wife. Her mind could have moved, possibly mother-in-law aided, along the wrong lines: another woman around and a clear field wanted. If so, that was more stupid than he would have thought possible: in Shard’s job, if you were bird-minded, you didn’t need to use the home base. The opportunities, provided you kept your official nose clean, were legion and varied and dead easy. Shard happened to be in love with his wife so he’d never bothered. He forced Beth from his mind, not without difficulty, conscious of a little red fury that, all unknowing, she had landed him with a home problem just when London could go sky-high a
t virtually a moment’s notice. His mind was progressing beyond Beth when there was a tap on his door.
He called, “Come in.”
He had a surprise: it was Elsie, the lady of easy virtue from the next floor up. Perfume swept ahead of her, a first-rate advert for such as liked it. “I’m ever so sorry to bother you, Mr Sams,” she said, using his philatelic name.
“Don’t mention it,” he said politely. “You’re on the go early, aren’t you?”
“What d’you mean, on the go?” She giggled.
“Oh, never mind. Are you starting a stamp collection?”
“Not exactly. A friend was asking after you —”
“A friend — of mine?”
“A client. He said he had something you might be interested in.”
“Ah! What, and who, Elsie?”
“I don’t know what. He just said like, to tell you, that’s all. I don’t know his name either, not reelly. I just know him as Whopper, and —”
“Which?”
“Whopper,” she said, “and if you like I’ll tell you why —”
“Don’t bother, I’ll guess. Where does Whopper hang out?” That was a mistake: Elsie hooted. “Live,” Shard said with asperity. She gave him an address in Tottenham Court Road. He thanked her and sent her off: her perfume stayed behind remindingly. His office ponged like a barber’s shop. He sat back in his chair, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. Whatever their names or their out-of-business-hours desires and habitats, men didn’t pass messages just for the fun of it. Somehow that message hadn’t had the sound of emanating from a man who wanted to show off his stamp collection. Shard got up, locked his office, clattered down the stairs and walked through rapidly to Tottenham Court Road. He found the number: it was, interestingly, a porn shop; he went in. It was empty inside, a vacuum that was filled upon the tinkle of a bell set off by his entry. From a curtained doorway behind a counter a small man appeared, bright-eyed, perky, with fair wispy hair.
“Yes, can I help you, sir?”
Shard said, “I’d like a word with someone they call Whopper.”
“Ah, yes.” The man coughed, clearing his throat. “Come inside if you will.” He turned away.
“Just a moment,” Shard said. His right hand, reaching left, was inside his jacket. “I’d sooner talk here. No offence … but just go and tell Whopper that, will you?”
“Oh, but I’m Whopper, Whopper Thurgood.”
“I see.” Surprise, surprise! “Then I think you’ll know who I am. Name of Sams. You had something to show me.”
“Tell, actually. Just tell.” Mr Thurgood looked and sounded nervous. “I’d much rather talk in the back, Mr Shard.”
Shard kept his face blank: it had been likely that his cover had blown after Terry’s earlier swoop around his premises, but it was still a shock to hear his name on this man’s lips. He said, “You’ll do your talking right here and you’d better make it fast.”
The little man hummed and ha-ed for a few uncertain moments, then climbed down ungraciously. “All right, if you insist. It’s about a man who’s been killed up north.”
“York?”
“I see you understand, Mr Shard. In the same line of business, me and him.”
“So?”
“Things travel. Word of mouth — you know.”
“In the porn business?”
“Why not? We’re a fraternity, close knit. We have to be, keeping inside the law —”
“Just.”
“Oh dear, Mr Shard, a miss is as good as a mile, you know!” Thurgood sniffed and looked hurt. “We’re like a club, in a way.”
“A club that’s told you who I am, and where to find me? A word of explanation, Mr Thurgood, if you please — now.”
“But of course.” Thurgood cleared his throat again: there was something in his eye, something Shard didn’t take to, something that warned him that Whopper Thurgood was seeing behind him and experiencing some relief in what he saw … Shard swung round just as the doorbell gave another tinkle. He was a fraction too late. Two men had entered, two tall men, two tall men from the Middle East, with guns.
One of them split his dark face into a gleaming, toothy smile beneath a hanging moustache. “Into the back, please, Mr Shard,” he said.
Twelve
The room at the back of the shop was stacked high with magazines and books in transparent plastic covers. Shard glanced at them: innocuous on the outside in accordance with the Longford-Whitehouse laws, but inside they wouldn’t pass, for instance, the Japanese censorship until customs had been busy on the pubic regions with their black-out pens. It took all sorts, Shard thought.
“Right through, Mr Shard. Out to the back door.”
“We’re not stopping?”
“I don’t trust policemen. You could have left word where you were going.”
Shard moved on ahead of the guns, out into a passage, out into a side street through a paint-peeled door. Behind came Thurgood, who had apparently shut his shop. As they emerged into the street, the gun-pressure came off Shard’s back, but he knew the ropes: in pockets, those guns could still kill. He was close-herded towards an elderly Austin noo, four door, white with black trim: somehow it failed to look the part, no doubt with prudent intent. Shard was pushed in, with both armed men in the back with him, and Thurgood up front. Another Arabic tough drove. To orders this man took the noo into Tottenham Court Road, past a uniformed copper engaged in chiding conversation with a youth on a bicycle: Shard hated seeing the friendly blue fade away behind. But the orders had been, just drive around: from this Shard drew a trace of comfort. The intent was not, it seemed, a snatch — or anyway, not just yet.
The man beside him said, “Now we talk, and you listen.”
“I listen? You don’t want to know anything?”
A laugh: “We know it all, Detective Chief Superintendent Shard of the Security Service. All your precautions are an open book. The police, the army explosives experts, the night patrols in the tube tunnels — your own visit last night! Yes, we know it all. You have done what you could do. It is not much.”
“But correctly aimed?”
“Correctly aimed, yes. In a broad sense. The whole network is our playground —”
“And more precisely?”
“I have said all I shall say. You have a wide area to cover — around 250 route miles with very many stations. Keep it up, although you cannot win!”
“You sound confident.”
“We are very confident, Shard. Now if you will listen, you may begin to appreciate why.” The Arab paused, looking for a moment at the passing scene, at crowding traffic and bustling pedestrians, workaday London that didn’t know it was so close to disaster and to that disaster’s architects: all it needed, Shard thought, was some ordinary copper to decide the 1100’s tyres needed a check for tread … The man beside him went on with his spiel. He said, “We have a demand to make.”
“You have?”
“Does this surprise you?”
Shard said, “I was beginning to wonder. There’s usually something, isn’t there?”
“Usually, yes.”
Shard looked sideways into the dark eyes, eyes that seemed to mock, to be amused. He said, “Well, go on, let’s have it. Who have we in custody that you want?”
“You can think of nobody?”
“No.”
The man laughed. “Neither can I! No, it is not that, Mr Shard. It is not so simple, so straightforward … so easy for you to deal with, to negotiate over, to perhaps double-deal in such a way that you can beat us. Do you understand?”
“Not really. You’ll have to be more explicit.”
“I shall be.” The Arab leaned closer. Hot breath flowed over Shard. “First let me tell you this: you have met … our leader. You have met others — a handful. But we are many more, Mr Shard, so very many more than you will believe, I think! You will find out — and in the meantime you would do well to have a little belief in what I say: that we are st
rong in numbers. It is important that you should believe this.”
“Important to me — or to you?”
The eyes gleamed. “Perhaps to both. But now here is the point of what I have to tell you: your underground network, Mr Shard, is to be used to assist us in a certain endeavour … to attain a specific object. At this moment I can add little, except —”
“We’ll have to know more than that.”
“Before you can bargain?” There was amusement in the voice. “We shall not bargain, so —”
“Neither will we. I didn’t mean that. I meant, before we can take you seriously, we’ll have to know the facts.”
The Arab nodded. “I see. Perhaps I may remind you, Mr Shard, of some of your British history. Back in the early years of the eighteenth century, a certain company was formed, known as the South Sea Company —”
“The South Sea Bubble — yes, I remember. So?”
“This company … it was formed, according to its articles of association, to pursue a purpose the nature of which, I quote, ‘shall be hereinafter divulged’.” The voice grew softer, still with its undercurrent of high amusement. “This applies to us, Mr Shard. Our purposes will be hereinafter divulged. I would add something else: the watch has not yet been wound up, the mainspring not yet tightened. In short, the —”
“In short, you’re not ready yet?”
“True. But only for this reason: our objective … the thing that will start the action … this has not yet materialised. When it does, you will not need us to tell you.” Once again the gun nudged harder into Shard’s side. “No questions. I say no more. You must wait now. There is only one thing further before I let you go free, Mr Shard.”
“And that is?”
“We want extra assurance. We want a certain person to be present in the underground system at a time and place that is also to be hereinafter divulged. That person is your chief of security, a Mr Hedge.”
*
The 1100 had stopped soon after this extraordinary announcement, pulling briefly up alongside a line of parked cars in a road near Regent’s Park: Shard was ordered out and at once the car was driven off, disappearing into the traffic. For what it was worth, Shard had the registration number: for his money, the car would have been nicked, would now be quickly abandoned. He was still astonished at the effrontery no less than at the efficiency of an organisation that had dug Hedge out from his nicely classified cover — or almost. A Mr Hedge! They had not, it seemed, arrived at his actual name — which small inaccuracy showed that at least some security remained unblown. What remained of Shard’s reaction was sheer mirth: poor Hedge, now regarded by the opposition as that very chief of security for whom he was supposed to be the screen or hedge, was about to do his nut.
A Very Big Bang Page 12
