“Readiness, sir?” Hedge’s jaw dropped. “Do I take it you mean to go along with this ridiculous demand, then?”
The Head of Security spread his hands. “Must I make all my points over again? We must be seen to be willing to co-operate for quite some of the way. This could involve even an actual, physical hand-over, but have no fear. We shall not sacrifice you.”
“How do you ensure that?” Hedge burst out. “How can you be so sure? And remember it’s you they want — not me. What happens when they find out?”
“They mustn’t find out, my dear chap. They mustn’t! You’re my Hedge. I rely on you to maintain a very close cover of me.” There was a dismissive wave: Hedge left the presence, feeling expendable and mutinous. Feeling also that the chief was committing an error of monumental proportions … but there had to be a better word than monumental! Hedge shivered, fear striking deep. His job it was to inspire confidence in his agents, his admin staff, his field men, his Shards: now he had to inspire confidence in his own mind, for it was his own organisation that would have to be his last safeguard. Walking back along the stately corridors of tradition, the corridors once trodden by British aristocrats against whom no damned terrorist would have dared raise a finger — times long ago — Hedge felt cold and already forgotten, a man doomed to oblivion in death, for however nobly he might die if it should come to that, the only memory permitted to a dead Hedge was a withering one, a thing of no overt honour.
Fourteen
Tom Casey, Father Donnellan, the dropout Nose, Larger, Nadia Nazarrazeen, the eager lover carved and dropped down the Butter tubs by far-off lonely Swaledale … none of them had revealed quite enough. The police in Yorkshire had retrieved that last body from its deep pit and it hadn’t been worth the effort, the risk to good coppers going down on ropes: there was no information about him obtainable anywhere. He had come in anonymously from some Middle Eastern country and he had exited this life in an eroded limestone shaft and that was that. It was still, as the Head of Security had told Hedge, a matter of waiting: as ever, terrorism held the initiative. Despondently Shard, his men now strategically placed to keep discreet observation on Puckle’s flat in Half Moon Street off Piccadilly, reviewed the known facts, sitting in his car in radio contact a few streets away — like everybody else, waiting. His review of the facts took him no time at all: his mind moved on, restlessly, surveying the precautions taken, the deployment of forces, the watch on the network of tunnels — and all the things that couldn’t be protected except by a total excision of the threat: the intricacies of electric cables, the maze of pipes carrying gas, the great channels of fresh water and London sewage, to say nothing of the foundations of buildings, so many of them close enough to the river sections that Shard considered the most likely target area: the Festival Hall, the Shell building, Whitehall Court, the Houses of Parliament themselves, just to name the biggest.
The call, coming in on his radio, using his personal call sign, though half expected and eagerly awaited, made him jump: and it wasn’t the one he’d hoped for, the one that would have told him of movement around the Puckle pad.
Hedge.
“S 1 to S 2, over.”
“S 2 answering. What is it now? Over.”
Hedge’s voice came thinly but with urgency. “Report in person. Now. No arguments, this is vital and can’t be said en clair. Do not, repeat not, call me back.”
Click: Hedge went off. Shard swore lurid oaths and blasphemies as, by obeying Hedge, he withdrew back-up support from his watchful DCs under Detective Sergeant Kenwood. Report in person, in the absence of any precise instruction, meant the Foreign Office, which was normally alien to Hedge’s cloak-and-dagger outlook: just how vital, just how secret, was this? Shard drove fast, savagely, from his temporary resting-place into Piccadilly. Not all that secret, it seemed! Shard roared along Piccadilly: Pandas prowled, plus the odd beat man, keeping eyes on wandering hippies, junkies clustering around the Circus, the general sordidness of the West End at night. Haymarket, Trafalgar Square, Whitehall, Foreign Office, Hedge. Dimly silent-hourly-lit corridors led to Hedge, sitting at his desk and listening to one of his telephones.
Their eyes met: Hedge waved towards a chair and Shard sat down, still feeling angry. Hedge finished his conversation, put down the handset, and lost no time.
“Shard, I said this was urgent and it is. I’ve had news of something big that could be the target for attack —”
“You mean the reason for attack, don’t you, Hedge?”
“Yes, yes. Don’t split hairs. Listen.” Hedge leaned across the desk, heavy and flabby-faced but serious. “Two men are flying into Heathrow from the Lebanon tomorrow evening. We’ve only just been warned by our Embassy in Beirut — they’ve only just been given the tip themselves. These birds are flying in with an American escort, under arrest —”
“American, Hedge?”
“American.” Hedge was in a state of controlled fury. “You’d think we’d have been informed — we’re allies, after all. But no, not a word. They’ll touch down in a British Airways VC 10 at five thirty-five for onward flight to Kennedy via TWA. So for two hours, a little over, they’ll be in Britain. Got that so far?”
“Not difficult. And I don’t like it. What’s the hook-up, Hedge?”
“Also not difficult. These men are wanted very badly in the States — we want them too, but as of now they’re U.S. property. Now, they were arrested by CIA agents before they could fly to Venezuela, which is where they want to go — I’ll come back to that in a moment. It so happens there’s a TWA flight from Heathrow to Maracaibo scheduled for just after the Kennedy flight —”
“And you think these birds’ll want to be on it? Who are they, Hedge?”
Hedge said ominously, “Fatah al Ahmedi and Khaled ben Suli.”
“Both Black September.”
“Right! Hijacks in Kuwait, at Kennedy — Heathrow — Amsterdam — Orly … bomb outrages too numerous to specify … kidnaps, murders ditto. I needn’t go on — you know them.”
“And this time?”
Hedge stared, mopped at his face: his eyes looked wild, and no wonder, with his personal involvement. “This time?” he repeated.
“You said, Venezuela. What did they mean to do there?”
Hedge mopped again. “Venezuela … it’s been known for some while that there’s to be a top-level conference there. All the terrorist brass — you know the kind of thing, brewing up world revolution — these two men are the lynch-pins of the Executive. America — the President himself was determined they shouldn’t make it, quite apart from the fact of the charges pending in the States. Our proper attitude is, of course, quite clear: we give the escort every facility and we see the men are put aboard the TWA for Kennedy.” Hedge gestured in the air. “If we don’t — if this is the objective of the threat to London, d’you see — well, there’ll be all kinds of pressures from Washington —”
“But in fact the threat itself is the principal one,” Shard broke in. Back in that 1100, the man had said positively enough that there was nobody they wanted out of custody, but within the context of that conversation British gaol custody could have been the point of reference; there didn’t have to be any contradiction. “If we’re right, Hedge, why not warn the Americans off, order the VC 10 to land somewhere else?”
He sat down; Hesseltine nodded his thinks. “Take due note, at a high level. The view is that it wouldn’t help, nor would it help to deny the Americans use of a British flight, tell them to make other arrangements —”
“Why can’t they use a military aircraft, Hedge?”
“In point of fact, I dare say they can. But we’re still stuck with it in the official view — in my view too.” Hedge waved a finger in Shard’s face. “Unless those terrorists are given clearance for a flight to Maracaibo from anywhere in the world, London goes up. Assuming we’ve made the right deductions initially, it seems obvious. They must always have considered our possible reaction when we ticked over, an
d they must have known we’d get the word in time to order a deviation. But they chose London.”
“So, in the event of a deviation, they’ll rely on pressure-waves emanating from Whitehall?”
“Of course! We still have a few friends left, nations who’ll spare a thought for London. That’s what these people would bank on. I say again, unless we co-operate London goes up.” Hedge shivered suddenly. “And so do I!”
“You, Hedge? You’re going in as demanded?”
Hedge nodded wordlessly.
“You have guts, Hedge.”
“I’m under orders. I sometimes think my master has no feelings.”
“You’re still a brave man.”
Hedge seemed to crumple: his head went down in his hands. “I haven’t any option … I’d be dropped like a hot potato. I’m not a man of real means, Shard, not with all this bloody socialism from both parties. I can’t exist on my pension … and I detest poverty, it’s the ultimate horror so far as I’m concerned.” He lifted his head, stared unseeingly at Shard, then seemed to stiffen himself. “Besides, there’s the national interest.”
“Of course. Not to worry, though — we’ll get you out.”
Hedge glowered. “You never liked me, did you, Shard.”
Shard felt jolted, and suddenly immensely sorry. He said, “No, that’s not true, we haven’t made a bad team. In any case, that doesn’t come into it. You have my absolute assurance that I’ll get you out.”
“There’s many a slip.”
“Sure. But we’re throwing in all we’ve got. I say again, don’t worry.” Shard paused. Things had to be settled now. “When d’you go, and how?” It sounded horribly like a trip to Majorca.
Hedge said, “I don’t know, they haven’t contacted yet. If I’m right, they’ll do so at any moment.”
“Here, by telephone?”
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Could be my office, I suppose —”
“Yes.” Hedge pounced on that. “You’re their contact man. You’d better get over there, Shard, quick as you can —”
“I’m on a job, an important one. You know that, Hedge.”
“This takes priority. I’m sorry. Don’t you see, it’s going to be the contact? As a matter of fact, I think I’ll come with you.”
“Look here —”
“I suppose it wouldn’t help to have a tap?”
Shard said impatiently, “You know it wouldn’t. They’ll use a call-box and they’ll make it quick, won’t they?”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Hedge looked and sounded sick, as though he could make no further effort but could only wait around to be placed in the Black September or whatever other net it might be with murderers and hijackers and bomb-throwers as his last companionship upon earth. Shard felt sorrier and sorrier: for much of the time past Hedge had been a self-seeking pink bastard, but he was facing this well enough. Presumably he was wanted as extra cover, and would be held until the terrorists reached Maracaibo …
Shard got to his feet. “If we’re going, let’s go.”
“Yes, yes …” They went down to Shard’s car. As they went Hedge started on something else: “Shard, I’ve had the Home Office on the line. Some highly placed doctor … they’ve dug up Weil’s Disease.”
Shard stared. “Come again?”
“During the war a bomb penetrated the subways at Tooting and hit a train. The guard, or maybe it was the driver — he managed to get out and walk back along the tunnel, up to his shoulders in water. He was shaken up, but otherwise seemed all right.” Hedge paused and blew his nose. “A couple of days later he was dead.”
“How?”
“I told you. Weil’s Disease.”
“Which is?”
“A particularly nasty form of jaundice, contracted through water infected by rats’ faeces.”
Shard shook his head in wonder and said, “Gamma rays, Hedge!”
“What?”
“Aren’t we facing something rather bigger than jaundice, however nasty?”
Dully Hedge nodded. “Yes, I suppose so, but it’s an extra worry, isn’t it?” He didn’t say anything further. Once in the Rover, they sat in silence. Shard thought about rat excreta: gamma rays or not, it was certainly another hazard. Hedge hadn’t said whether that unfortunate tube man had waded through the outflow of a broken sewer or of a fresh-water main; but by the time the mix-up came, it wouldn’t be important, sewers and fresh water would be all one and this Weil’s Disease might be everywhere. And if there was one disease, there could presumably be others …
Shard let himself into his office, flicked on the lights, and went across to the cupboard where he kept whisky. He lifted an eyebrow at Hedge.
Hedge nodded. “Thank you.”
Shard poured neat measures, took his in one quick fling down his throat. He lit a cigarette, sat at his desk, shoulders hunched, starting the waiting game again. Hedge’s imaginings could be all to hell, however logical they might sound. Hedge, in the meantime, looked as though his imagination was running riot. In the event no telephone call came; but after some half an hour of monosyllabic conversation with Hedge, Shard’s personal transceiver bleeped him from his pocket and he brought it out. It was Kenwood calling. “Go ahead,” Shard said.
“Chummy has visitors: one woman, two men.”
Shard’s knuckles whitened: Nadia Nazarrazeen? He said, “This woman: check identity?”
Kenwood’s voice came thinly, “Check!”
“Sure?”
“Sure enough from the description, sir. Action?”
“If anyone leaves, tail. Short of that, hold it — I’m on my way.” Shard flicked off, shoved the transceiver back into his pocket and met the angry eye of Hedge.
Hedge asked, “What was all that, then?”
Shard explained. He said, “I’m going in — you heard. I’d like you to come.”
“But the phone call —”
“It can wait, this can’t. They can ring again, can’t they?” Shard was checking his gun. “This is the boss woman moving in. You may not need to be handed over — it could mean you’ll live, Hedge! Isn’t that a nice thought?” He gave a hard grin. “It’s time you saw a little field work for yourself, just in case!”
Hedge’s mouth opened for another protest, but Shard hustled him towards the door.
*
“Kenwood?” Shard kept his voice low: there was silence in Half Moon Street, silence and emptiness and a kind of pregnant ominousness. Walking in past the night-shrouded offices with flats above had been like entering a tomb, the DS in the shadows like some brooding priest.
“Yes, sir.”
“They’re still there?”
“Still there, sir.”
“Came by car — did they?”
“Jaguar XJ12, black. Dropped them and went on.” Detective Sergeant Kenwood waved a hand, ghost-like. “Parked round the corner.”
“How about the back of the premises?”
“Two DCs watching, sir.”
“Right, fine. Any lights visible?”
“First floor flat, sir — Puckle’s. Window left of the front door.”
“And the front door?”
“Appears to open by remote control on the tenant being called on an intercom system.”
“Right,” Shard said again. “We’re going in, Kenwood. Bring up your front DCs, will you?” He watched while Kenwood stepped into the road, lifted an arm, and stepped back again into the shadows. Four figures closed in, joining Shard and Kenwood. Shard said, “Extreme care, all of you. They may be expecting us. I’ll approach the front door alone. I want the rest of you round the corner in Piccadilly. Sergeant Kenwood will watch for my signal … when the door opens, I’ll wave. Then you come in fast, but as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. All right?” Shard delayed no longer: as Kenwood sent his DCs off singly into Piccadilly, Shard moved towards the door, taking it slow and casual, climbed the short flight of steps, examined the night-lit bell-pushes, and
pressed Puckle’s. After an interval, a voice came at Shard, about head height, on the intercom: “Who is it?”
“Nose,” Shard said in a hoarse voice, half smothered by a coughing attack.
“Nose?”
“From York. It’s about Pearson. Something you ought to know, mate.”
Shard waited: they would wonder how Nose had come to know Puckle, but they wouldn’t keep him hanging about: men like Nose, men who smelt of meths and overall rough sleeping, tended to attract attention. A few moments later, with nothing more said, the heavy door clicked open fractionally. Shard gave it a push: the way was wide. Stepping back, he waved, saw the responding shadows move inwards. Holding the door open, he went in with his gun ready. Behind him, Kenwood with his four DCs crowded a narrow hall. Operated from somewhere above, a dim light went on and they saw the stairs at the end of the hall. No stealth now: they ran for the stairs, flat out, Shard in the lead, praying to God that they might dodge the bullets. He was aware as he ran that there had been no mistake in the identification of the woman seen going in: her scent was on the air, fragrant, pervasive reminder of sexuality. So far, this was the only manifestation. Shard reached a landing, saw the door to Puckle’s flat, solid wood, white painted. It seemed peaceful, there was even an air of abandonment. Shard went forward, was utterly unprepared for what happened: the door came open suddenly, very suddenly, drawn inwards, and he saw fire, what looked like a flaming bundle of clothing. Held by two tall men, dark-faced and dark haired, the bundle was hurled straight at Shard. Shard went down beneath it, heard the shouts of his men behind him, heard the stutter of an automatic and felt the transmitted thud of bullets into the flaming, stinking bundle. The smell was not new to Shard: burning flesh, plus petrol. He struggled out from under, beating at his own clothing, the stench in his nostrils nauseating. There was another burst of gunfire, returned by the plain-clothes men behind Shard. Bullets whistled past his head, pinging into walls and woodwork: then the door of the flat slammed shut. Shard ran for it, threw his weight against its solidity: it held, locked fast from inside. He looked round, saw that Kenwood was on his feet with one of his DCs. Three others lay sprawled on the stairs, pouring blood. Shard used his transceiver, called the Yard, rapped an urgent appeal for men and ambulances. Then he looked down at the burning corpse.
A Very Big Bang Page 14
