by D C Alden
Behind Saeed, the Emergency Management Centre was packed with dozens of officials; a gaggle of bureaucrats from the Civil Contingencies Secretariat, a cabal of senior police and fire officers, MPs and Ministry of Defence personnel, suits and uniforms, gathered in tight knots as they regarded the solitary figure by the window. Saeed sensed their sympathy, but it was more than that. There was also respect, for Tariq Saeed, Minister for Communities and Social Cohesion, was now potentially one of only two surviving Cabinet members. Or so everyone assumed.
The best laid plans of mice and men, Saeed mused, balling his fists behind his back. His eyes wandered across the darkening skyline. He could make out Big Ben and Westminster Abbey, a triumvirate of famous spires jutting upwards through the haze, but beyond Parliament Square everything was blanketed by clouds of dust and smoke. Flames glowed like angry coals in the darkness as night crept across the city.
Saeed inched closer to the glass and looked down. Far below, behind twirling strands of blue and white tape strung across the street, Millbank itself was choked with fire engines, ambulances and police vehicles, a sea of blue and red flashing lights all desperate to race into Whitehall. Across the river, the south bank was similarly clogged and, on both sides of the Thames, thousands of civilians streamed away from the area. It would be a long journey for many; all modes of transport had been shut down – trains, tubes, buses, everything. London was at a standstill.
‘Sir, we must make a decision.’
Saeed glanced over his shoulder. The senior emergency service personnel were standing in a loose half-circle behind him, frustration etched across their faces, the urge to begin rescue operations an almost tangible thing. As Saeed opened his mouth to speak, another distant boom rumbled across the skyline. He turned in time to see a fireball rolling skyward over Whitehall. The uniforms surged towards the windows, crowding around Saeed. He bristled at the physical proximity.
‘Could be another fuel tank erupting, or a gas main letting go,’ ventured a Fire Chief.
‘Gas supplies to the whole area have been shut off,’ confirmed another voice.
‘Residual fumes in the pipes, then. Or maybe storage tanks. Has anyone any idea how many fuel storage tanks there are in government buildings?’
‘That’s your domain,’ sniffed Robin Chapman, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner. ‘You have inventories for this sort of thing, no?’
The Fire Chief turned on him. ‘Now wait just a minute–’
They continued to squabble as Saeed looked on. Chapman was a typical choice for the Met’s top job, a political appointee rather than a policeman, a Common Purpose graduate whose successful rise up the ladder had been moulded by Saeed and others in return for unswerving loyalty. There were many like him in positions of power right across the country.
‘Enough!’ ordered Saeed. He turned away from the window. ‘We have to assume that was another bomb.’ His voice was smooth, his accent polished and eloquent, the result of private schooling and a Cambridge degree that had long since buried all traces of his immigrant upbringing.
‘If we don’t start rescue operations soon, the casualty list could be far higher than it already is,’ argued the chief operations officer of the London Ambulance Service, a small, thin man with receding grey hair. Saeed saw the man’s face boil with frustration. ‘Those buildings are old, many of them still have original timber frames. If those fires take hold we could have casualties burning to death. The Prime Minister himself may be–’
‘Don’t you think I’ve considered that?’ snapped Saeed. ‘If they’ve managed to hit Downing Street we have to assume they can and will hit elsewhere. How do we know Parliament hasn’t been targeted? How do we know they’re not waiting to detonate secondary devices as we rush to help?’
‘It’s a chance we’ll have to take,’ the chief retorted. ‘This time-wasting is costing lives.’
The comment was greeted with vigorous head nodding and murmurs of agreement. Saeed sensed the tide turning against him. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted, pointing a finger at the pall of smoke in the distance. ‘But we all agree this is a sophisticated operation. Someone out there is watching, waiting for us to make our move. I’d like to make sure it’s as safe as possible. The army has-’
The doors to the room suddenly flew open and the imposing bulk of Jacob Hooper, Secretary of State for Defence, swept into the room, his entourage of advisors and assistants trailing behind him like pilot fish. His grey suit was covered in dust, his white shirt and red striped tie caked with soot, his shoes scuffed and dirty. He came to a halt in the middle of the green carpet, waving a document above his head.
‘This is more than just an isolated incident,’ he bellowed. The voices in the room died away. ‘There’s been another bomb, a few minutes ago. A device was detonated at the Luton Central Mosque.’
All eyes turned toward Saeed. ‘What did you say?’
Hooper shook his large, balding head, laying a meaty paw on Saeed’s shoulder. His quiet words dripped with sympathy. ‘I’m afraid it’s true, Tariq.’
Saeed cupped his hands over his mouth. When he spoke his voice barely rose above a faint whisper. ‘Friday prayers. The mosque would’ve been packed.’
‘Yes,’ Hooper soothed, ‘we must brace ourselves for many casualties.’ He turned to face the room, the document once again raised above his head, a thin sheaf of papers bound in a clear plastic cover brandished like a religious artefact before devoted worshippers. ‘Cell phone conversations, intercepted less than six hours ago. They refer to a spectacular, quote unquote. There’s also mention of the Prime Minister and the timing of this afternoon’s press conference.’ He lowered the folder, slapping it into the chest of a loitering assistant. ‘This is a truly horrendous day. We must act, and act swiftly.’
‘Then let us begin rescue operations immediately, Minister.’
Hooper stared at the Ambulance chief, at the other senior officers gathered around him. ‘You understand the dangers?’ he asked.
‘We’ve discussed them,’ Saeed interrupted, brushing dusty fingerprints from his shoulder. ‘They’re prepared to accept the risks.’
‘The Met’s CBRN personnel are standing by,’ Hooper pointed out. ‘They can assist you. However the Army’s specialist counterIED teams are still en route.’
‘We can’t wait, Sir.’
The Defence Minister waved his hand. ‘Then go. And take every precaution,’ he boomed as the chiefs hurried en masse towards the doors. The corridor outside bulged with armed police. Saeed waited until the last one had gone and the doors were closed. He turned to Hooper, inspecting him carefully. ‘Are you alright, Jacob?’
Hooper swallowed hard and nodded. Tiny grains of dust from his head drifted towards the carpet. ‘I’m fine, thank God. Your phone call was incredibly fortuitous. Another few minutes and we’d both have been inside Downing Street. Makes me sweat just thinking about it.’ He patted the dust from the sleeves of his jacket. ‘We need to talk, Tariq.’
‘Yes. There’s much to discuss.’
Saeed looked over Hooper’s shoulder. The room was quieter now, the lights dimmed as a security measure. Hooper’s entourage loitered nearby, deep in discussion. Every phone in the room was in use, glued to the ear of a pale-faced MP, their voices urgent, fearful. Civil Contingency people and assorted government workers crowded around the conference table at the far end of the room, heads huddled together, their voices laced with the whisper of uncertainty, their assistants scribbling furiously on electronic tablets that glowed in the diffused light. Several police officers were standing in front of a huge map of London covering one wall, discussing security measures. Others came and went, low-level flunkeys and secretaries, moving urgently, seeking purpose, craving the stability that had been so violently snatched from them by the Downing Street bomb. Saeed could smell their fear, could see the unspoken pleas for help in their eyes as they regarded the two most senior members of government still walking and talking.
He felt a hand on his arm as Hooper guided him away from his entourage towards the window. The power had been cut to Whitehall and Big Ben was a black shadow in the distance, shrouded behind a veil of smoke. Beyond was a deep red glow, as if a meteorite had fallen from the sky and destroyed Downing Street along with everything around it.
Then Hooper spoke, glancing down to the street below where a procession of emergency vehicles, blue and red lights flickering in the darkness, moved slowly towards Parliament Square. ‘There’s no constitutional model for an event like this. That said, I’ve spoken with Brussels and three of the Lord Justices of the Supreme Court. The Duke of Cambridge has agreed with their recommendation that interim authority be passed to me to act on the Prime Minister’s behalf until the situation becomes clearer. As my most senior minister I expect your full support, Tariq.’
‘You have it, Jacob.’
‘We’ll need help. The democratic process must be maintained.’
‘We have a majority in both Houses,’ Saeed pointed out. ‘Your authority will not be questioned.’ He fished inside his jacket pocket and produced a sheet of paper. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a list of MPs from across the political divide to replace the casualties. Some have previous Cabinet experience.’
Saeed watched Hooper as he scanned the list, the fat fingers stroking the heavy jowls, the bulbous eyes that sat too close together, the bushy brows that arched above them. He truly was an ugly man, Saeed concluded. And predictable.
‘Yes, very good,’ Hooper said. ‘We should all meet at the earliest opportunity.’
‘I’ll arrange it. In the meantime, Brussels has allocated several floors here in the Euro Tower to temporarily house the new administration, which means the police will have to block off the surrounding streets as a security measure. As a consequence, the general public will be denied access to the area. The Tate Gallery will have to close, I’m afraid.’
Hooper waved the information away, his gaze fixed on the destruction in Whitehall. ‘The least of our concerns.’ He was quiet for a moment, then he said, ‘While we’re on the subject Tariq, I’d like you to take charge of security, liaise with the police and security services. The perpetrators of these hideous acts must be caught, and caught quickly. Tensions will be running high across the country, particularly in your own community. We must nip any unrest in the bud. You’ll be my point man on this. In effect, my Deputy Prime Minister.’
Saeed paused, then said: ‘Shouldn’t we at least wait until the emergency services have begun rescue operations? My appointment may seem a little presumptuous.’
Hooper turned, a grim frown knotting his brow. ‘Take a look out there, Tariq.’ He tapped the glass with a thick finger, where distant flames leapt above the shattered rooftops and black smoke towered into the night sky. ‘Downing Street is gone.’ Hooper turned to face him. When he spoke his words resonated around the room, ensuring that everyone – including Saeed – acknowledged the authority in his voice. ‘This is no time for half measures, Tariq. We must act quickly and decisively. The country is depending on us.’
Saeed nodded his head in acceptance. Yes, he concluded, the man really was predictable.
The darkness was almost complete, the smoke thicker, the glow of the fire visible beyond the shell of the study wall. Bryce coughed and spluttered, holding a handkerchief over his nose and mouth. All the while, Mac worked away on his hands and knees, a desperate shadow that tugged and pushed and pulled, burrowing at the thick knot of debris and fallen timbers trapping Bryce’s leg. He grunted with the effort, swearing violently as he lacerated his hands once again. His latex gloves were in shreds and he pulled them off, hurling them to one side.
The evening wind shifted, kicking up the dust, drawing the smoke up through the building like a chimney. Behind Mac, through the gaping brickwork, Bryce glimpsed a tongue of flame. Then another.
‘Jesus Christ, Mac, it’s getting closer.’ Mac said nothing, moving around the heavy desk and attacking the timbers from another angle. ‘Mac? Did you hear me?’
Bryce heard the whimper in his own voice, the fear constricting his vocal chords, his shattered teeth and bleeding gums sucking at the words. At any moment Mac would realise the futility of his efforts and save his own skin, scrambling back down the shattered staircase, leaving Bryce to his fate. He was going to burn to death, like an accused witch, the flames igniting his clothes, scorching his flesh–
‘Mac, for God’s sake–’
‘Quiet!’ Mac yelled. Bryce cringed as he watched Mac scramble across the debris towards him. He flinched as he knelt down, felt his hand being grabbed and squeezed. Bryce could feel the warm blood, imagined the cuts crisscrossing his hands.
‘I won’t leave you, got it? But you’ve got to help me. Work your leg free when I say. Ignore the pain or we’re both dead.’
Bryce nodded several times, his eyes flicking from Mac to the orange light that played across the shattered walls, dancing through the building towards them. He watched Mac stumble around the dark lump of his desk, saw him duck out of sight for several long, agonising seconds, then reappear with a thick piece of floor joist in his hands. He scrambled over the piles of debris towards his trapped leg, setting his feet wide apart above the spot where the limb disappeared beneath the wreckage, his body a dark silhouette backlit by hungry flames that glowed devilishly around the pockmarked walls. He winced as Mac plunged the stake deep into the debris, felt the timbers shift around his leg, squeezing the limb, clamping it to the floor.
‘Mac, please!’
‘Wait!’
The younger man leaned on the end of the stake, pushing down. Bryce felt something shift, the weight suddenly easing off his kneecap. Hope blossomed.
‘That’s it, Mac! Keep going!’
Mac tugged the timber out and stabbed it back into the pile, twisting, digging deeper. He pushed down again, using his body weight, levering the debris upwards. Bryce moved his leg. Pins and needles raced up and down the limb as the blood began to flow. He reached down, balling the material of his trousers and pulling his knee towards him, his calf scraping across wooden splinters and rusted nails. He ignored the pain, the tearing of flesh. He was out, free.
Mac allowed the pile of timbers to crash back down and scrambled over to Bryce.
‘Let me see.’ He panted, bending over the limb. The trouser leg was shredded, the skin slippery with blood. Bryce felt Mac’s hands working the flesh, the bones, the joints. ‘Any pain?’
Bryce shook his head. Smoke swirled around them, black smoke, noxious, choking. Through the gap, the fire leapt upwards, hungry, searching.
‘On your feet!’ Mac ordered. His strong hands gripped the lapels of Bryce’s jacket and pulled. Bryce pushed himself to his knees. The jacket caught on a nail and Bryce shook it off. Mac lifted him up under the armpits, then dragged him across the wreckage of his study. Bryce stumbled, then focussed on his footsteps. He saw his books, scarred and blackened, splintered furniture he barely recognised. Mac’s hand pulled him mercilessly. He tripped, put his hand out to break the fall, sinking to the elbow in broken plaster and other debris. He pulled himself up, his collar ripping as Mac grabbed his shirt and yanked hard. Back on his feet, Bryce discovered his shoe was missing, the sock wet with blood. He didn’t feel the pain, only the heat from the fire, roaring up from the lobby, curling hungrily beneath the first floor landing where they now stood. He threw an arm up over his face.
‘The stairs, quick!’
Bryce staggered after Mac, the heat forcing the men against the wall of the staircase. Broken glass cracked and crunched underfoot. Bryce glanced down. Former Prime Ministers stared back at him, their faces lit by a fiery glow. He stumbled down a few more steps then collided into Mac. For a moment he almost felt safe, skulking behind the broad-shouldered man in front, protected from the worst of the heat. The fire was less than fifteen feet away, consuming what remained of the lobby, roaring up towards the roofless sky. Timbers cooked and splintered, cracki
ng in the heat. Bryce glanced toward the interior of the building, where corridors and state rooms once existed, now a dark grotto of unspeakable devastation. Smoke and flames belched from within.
‘We have to jump the last bit,’ Mac shouted. Part of the staircase was missing, the ground twenty feet below. ‘Get in front of me. I’ll lower you down.’ He shuffled around the small section of landing they were stood on, twisting Bryce so his back faced the street. Bryce could feel the heat of the flames now, prickling his shirt. He panicked, gripping Mac’s outstretched hands with his own.
‘I can’t!’
‘You can! Climb down, now. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.’
Bryce did as he was told, sliding towards the edge of the landing and lowering his body over the lip. He looked down, over his shoulder. The familiar black and white tiles of the lobby were submerged under a sea of rubble and jagged floor joists. He hung over the edge, feet dangling, Mac’s face above screwed in effort, the sweat pouring off his face.
‘Let go! Drop!’
‘I can’t!’ Bryce shouted, staring at the debris below.
‘Yeah, you can,’ Mac replied, prising Bryce’s fingers from his wrist.
Bryce dropped hard, crashing on to the rubble. He yelped in pain, rolled through the dirt and soot. Fear forced him to his feet, the intensity of the flames pushing him backwards until he realised he’d stumbled out into Downing Street itself. He caught himself on the edge of the crater, a giant hole that marked the epicentre of the blast. He was rooted to the spot, shocked by its enormity. Then Mac was beside him, pulling him from the edge, pushing him onwards over hillocks of brick and rubble. On the other side of the street the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was an inferno. They were caught inside a cathedral of destruction, the flames all around, towering towards the night sky. Mac gripped his hand with strong fingers, dragging him along.
