Shard at Bay

by Philip McCutchan

  “You mean take the kids with us?”

  “Right! They’re coming anyway, aren’t they? They’ll follow like sheep — you’ll see. Kids … they’re a sight better than a load of cars and vans and such, solo driver jobs, no passengers.” O’Carse added, “It’s their own bloody fault for being there.”

  Blakey gave a whistle and a nod. Too true, what O’Carse had said. Kids … kids from the EEC, what a bleeding headache for the brass! Blakey hugged himself with glee; neither he nor O’Carse were exactly philanthropists and young lives didn’t particularly register. He obeyed orders when O’Carse told him to make hand signals through the rear window, to the mobiles and the HGVs, indicating that they were to keep the four coaches closed in and closed up tight with no chance for a break-out. The mobiles would get the message all right: they were to drop the original idea of bringing any other hostage vehicles into the convoy. O’Carse drove on. The police car that had been overtaking now slowed to tuck in behind the rear coach after its driver had given a thumbs-up in response to Blakey’s mouthings and flapping hands.

  Tight together, they all peeled off into the exit for the A20, signposted for London and Orpington. The leading coach driver was surprised to say the least at the change in his route but accepted it as necessary for reasons unknown. The other three drivers simply followed him. Like sheep, as O’Carse had said. They came onto dual carriageway: a good, fast road at this time of day. O’Carse again increased speed: before long, someone was going to tick over, his immunity couldn’t last for ever. The convoy sped past a lay-by, past a snack bar in another lay-by. London was now signposted at seventeen miles; and just after this the dual carriageway widened to three lanes. They went over a railway line … rugby pitches, both sides of the road after the railway … housing estates … on into the outskirts of Bexley and down again to two lanes. More traffic and O’Carse was obliged to drop his speed. Here the official limit was fifty and there were law-abiding drivers in front of him. London fifteen miles; and now down to a single lane, more buildings, bus stops, a big roundabout at Ruxley Corner. Here there was something of a hiatus: the second of the two articulated lorries, its driver having failed to comprehend and being anxious about the coaches ahead of him, between him and O’Carse, managed by some dangerous driving to pass the rear coach and tuck in behind the third one. Now the area was considerably more built up, an industrial complex. But back again to a wider road, with a suicide lane down the centre. O’Carse used this, disregarding speed limits, forced the oncoming traffic from the overtaking lane ahead. Another roundabout at Crittall’s Corner, Central London A20 straight ahead. Shard was trying to work things out: why in heaven’s name Central London? Back now to dual carriageway with O’Carse in the fast lane all the way. London twelve miles, speed limit fifty. O’Carse pushed it up. They crossed the A222, lights at green. Central London eleven miles. Up a short hill on the Sidcup by-pass, back to single lane and the speed forced down again: the next speed limit was forty past the National Dock Labour Board’s sports ground. Dual carriageway again, and urban clearway. They came into the London Borough of Greenwich. The sign said Nuclear Free Zone and O’Carse gave a sudden laugh.

  “One explosion’s as good as another, they all kill,” he said. That was all. No-one else spoke. They were grim-faced, tensed up now. Sidcup Road, still forty mph … dual carriageway again, traffic lights at Five Ways Corner and the speed dropping as O’Carse came up to a tail-back. The lights changed before he had to stop. Now on the A2, more traffic lights, green, a pub called the Dutch House with a big red neon sign reading TAKE COURAGE.

  O’Carse laughed again.

  Beneath a railway bridge, and then another roundabout. O’Carse took the exit signposted for the Blackwall Tunnel and the A102M, crossing the South Circular Road. Still dual carriageway … lights and a right turn, again signposted for the Blackwall Tunnel. Playing fields both sides of the road behind iron fences, a wide road with a suicide lane which once again O’Carse used, his rear mobile keeping the convoy closed up like sheep dogs … tower blocks, council flats. The road narrowed again past Kidbrooke Station, over a railway bridge, single lane, past the Thomas Tallis Youth Centre and under a footbridge, right turn — Blackwall Tunnel again, into a narrow, twisty sector which O’Carse took as fast as the traffic allowed … past a public house, a left-hand turn. Traffic really pressing now although it was still early, no chance to overtake anything, council estates, onto the A102M. Down a cleavage with high walls to either side, a number of road bridges crossing overhead, walls becoming higher and then fading away as the road widened into three lanes and the red lights flashed their speed-limit warnings, twenty mph and the Blackwall Tunnel, busiest of all the Thames crossing points, now five hundred yards ahead. Gantries with lane instructions and general warnings: one said no explosives or inflammables in the tunnel, and O’Carse laughed for the third time. Instructions about weight, length and width limits also amused him. Past the Victoria Deep Water Terminal on the left.

  And into the Blackwall Tunnel.

  *

  The time elapsed had not been long: forty-five minutes from Junction 3 on the M25 to the entry to the Blackwall Tunnel. The convoy’s progress had been noted and reports had been going in minute by minute: London had never seen anything quite like this before and it was a miracle there hadn’t been a massive accident. The reports reached the Yard and Hesseltine: the four coaches with the children embarked had entered the Blackwall Tunnel northbound, accompanied by police mobiles, two articulated lorries mixed in with the coaches and behind the convoy an assortment of the usual day-to-day traffic. B Division was on the ball and mobiles were moving as fast as possible to be in position at the exit roads north of the tunnel.

  Hesseltine didn’t expect anything to emerge after the innocent traffic ahead of the coaches had cleared away. He was right: nothing did. North of the Blackwall Tunnel, from there to the various exits to the A11 and other routes, the roads stood empty.

  Once again Hesseltine was on the line to the Foreign Office. “This is it,” he said. “Detachment X for my money, holed up in the Blackwall Tunnel.”

  The Head of Security, early in his office, was rocked. But he said they could only wait. There was bound to be a contact. Detachment X must be wanting something; if they intended to blow the tunnel — and that would of course be the big stick — they wouldn’t blow it yet. He said, “I’ll inform the Permanent Under-Secretary. Keep in touch, Hesseltine.”

  “I’ll do that.” Hesseltine rang off, wondering what the results would be of a blow-up in the confines of the Blackwall Tunnel. The results above ground — they could all visualise what the scene would be like inside, the shatter, the blood, the wreckage, the mangled bodies. No doubt similar to what would have happened had the explosion come in the Dartford Tunnel, but this was closer to London’s heart, the East End heart at all events. What effect would the downpouring of the Thames have, if the explosion didn’t all travel out of the exits and the roof burst through? Millions of tons weight of water, swilling through to spill out at either end, one of the capital’s main traffic arteries gone for a long, long time to come. Hesseltine knew the statistics: the Blackwall Tunnel was 6200 feet in length, and of this 1222 feet were below the river itself. External diameter twenty-seven feet, sixteen feet width of carriageway, sidewalk of three feet one-and-a-half inches, headroom at the centre seventeen feet seven-and-a-half inches … for what it was now worth, it had taken five years to build.

  Hesseltine sweated, drummed his fingers on his desk. His telephone rang, the security line. It was the Permanent Undersecretary himself offering the usual Civil Service panacea.

  “There’s to be a conference, Hesseltine, immediately. Get over, will you? I want everyone together … ready for when these people make contact.”

  *

  O’Carse in the leading car, behind the early-morning buildup of normal traffic, had touched his footbrake three or four times, bringing on his brake lights as a warning to the coach b
ehind. Gradually the speed came down. O’Carse stopped at a couple of hundred yards past the midway point. Behind the police car at the tail of the coach-and-lorry convoy, other traffic was still coming in. Nothing from ahead: the southbound traffic used the separate tunnel to the east. O’Carse’s men got out from the car and stood by it with automatic rifles in their hands. They answered no questions. There was already a degree of panic; the traffic was already forming a tailback, streaming away south of the tunnel. Now there was no way out other than on foot along the narrow walkway.

  There was a movement out of the cars. Still the armed men in police uniforms would answer no questions: it was very sinister. Drivers and passengers hoisted themselves to the sidewalk, and streamed back south. The armed police didn’t interfere. Not until a helmeted London bobby was seen moving in alongside the halted traffic. When that happened one of the armed men lifted his rifle and opened fire, and the constable fell in a pool of blood and lay still. There were screams and shouts, and more people left their cars and ran for safety. As the racket died away, there was a total silence until it was broken by a police syren and then more gunfire from the northern end, echoing along the tunnel.

  17

  The northern gunfire was more sustained: a police mobile, a genuine one, had entered the empty mouth of the tunnel and come on with its blue lights flashing and its syren blaring out a warning. The three men who had been with Shard in the lead car had already got out, and now they crouched, waiting, automatic rifles aimed ahead.

  O’Carse gave the order the moment the mobile came in sight round a bend in the tunnel. All three opened fire and the mobile slewed a little as its driver died, and came crabwise across the carriageway to hit the side wall and stop. The firing was kept up, then O’Carse went forward at a crouching run behind his gun. He took a look then walked back.

  “All dead,” he said. “And they’ve made a nice road block if their mates come in. Now — Mr Shard. Pin your ears back and listen. There’s all the time in the world, but there’s no point in delay. First thing, get out.”

  Shard came out from the back of the car. As he emerged and came upright he looked back along the line of lorries and coaches. The children were dead scared, staring white-faced from the windows, the coach lights on. Armed men from the police vehicles were moving up and down, making their weapons obvious to the coach drivers, who were remaining in their seats and looking as scared as the children. O’Carse, his face streaming sweat now in the tunnel’s closeness, held his rifle with one hand and with the other took a grip on the front of Shard’s jacket. His face was thrust close and the look was hard, determined, fanatical.

  “This is where your part starts, Detective Chief Superintendent Shard of the Foreign Office. Starts right now. Ready?”

  Shard stared back. “I doubt if you really expect me to cooperate.”

  O’Carse laughed. “I know you will, Mr Shard. I know you will. Now listen. You’re going to walk ahead with an escort until you’re in the tunnel exit north. You’re going to find fuzz — your own mates, right? You’re going to talk to them. But you’re not going to do anything else and you’re going to say nothing beyond what I tell you to say, and when you’ve talked you come back. You’ll be covered all the way by the guns … and then there’s the other thing, isn’t there? Your wife. First thing that looks like going wrong, she gets it. Now: ready for your speech, Mr Shard?”

  *

  The Foreign Office conference was well attended. Besides the Permanent Under-Secretary and the ACC there was the head of B Division — traffic — and high-ranking men both military and civilian from Defence Ministry, In addition, this being now very much an EEC matter, the Common Market ambassadors were in attendance in person. There was a man from the Cabinet Office, plus the Home Secretary, also in person. Indeed the only VIP not present was Hedge, distant on the Gareloch.

  The Permanent Under-Secretary started the ball rolling: like the Head of Security earlier, he said there was nothing to be done in any direct sense until the men in the Blackwall Tunnel made some sort of contact; but in the meantime, since they all had explosions in mind, certain dispositions had to be made. Many had; Hesseltine reported that all traffic for the southbound tunnel had been halted some way back from the entry and the immediate area was now clear. He had been in touch with the Port of London Authority and all river traffic over the tunnel had stopped as well. Efforts were being made to clear the contiguous areas north and south.

  “An evacuation?”

  “Yes, so far as possible. We don’t want unnecessary casualties … we don’t know how much time we’ve got and it’s a big operation to —”

  “Quite. I understand that. Troops?” Sir Edmund looked across at a major-general from Defence Ministry.

  “London District’s available when required, Under-secretary.”

  Sir Edmund nodded, seemed undecided. “What can they do, I wonder?”

  “Depends how the situation develops, of course.” The Major-General was abrupt, largely because he didn’t know the answer to that either. “GOC London District’s awaiting orders, and in the meantime is moving troops closer to the vicinity of the tunnel, north and south.”

  “They can’t get away with it,” Sir Edmund said. “Can’t possibly. Must be a suicide squad.” He paused. “I suppose we could … er … mount an assault, General?”

  “On what?”

  “On the tunnel mouth. From the north, where I gather the entry’s clear of traffic.”

  “I don’t think so, Under-Secretary. That would only precipitate their actions. As you said yourself, we must wait. It’s nasty — doing nothing. But it’s inevitable. We’ve done, or are doing, all we can for now. I —”

  “If I might put in a word?” This was the man from the US Embassy, Hedge’s bugbear, Taft; but he was interrupted by the sudden burr of the telephone that stood in front of the Permanent Under-Secretary. Everyone tensed up as Sir Edmund answered. He nodded and said, “Thank you. Yes, I’ll hold the line.” He looked up, looked around the intent faces, tucked the mouthpiece below his chin for a moment.

  “Tunnel, north exit,” he said. “Shard has been seen in the tunnel mouth.”

  *

  The men were behind Shard, their automatic rifles aimed, but they were keeping out of sight from beyond the exit. Shard could see police officers, all of them armed, keeping handy for cover. He knew what he had to say. He knew too that if he spoke out of turn the threat to Beth would be carried out. He knew his own risk as well: a gunning down on the instant. He was no thin red line of heroes but his own risk he could accept: it was part of his life as a copper. It was not part of Beth’s. Nor was it part of those children’s lives, or the mothers and teachers, or the coach drivers; and he didn’t see what he could achieve in any case since he could only tell the truth, give the story as it was.

  He called out to the police beyond the tunnel.

  “My name is Shard …”

  A chief inspector answered: “We’ve recognised you, Mr Shard.”

  “Is there anyone from my section there?”

  “No, sir.”

  Of course, they wouldn’t have known until now … Shard spoke steadily, in a carrying voice. “I’m under duress, as is everyone in the tunnel. One hundred and sixty-eight children and some women … I have a message from Detachment X.” He swallowed.

  “Listening, Mr Shard. Go on, please.”

  “In the tunnel is a massive amount of high explosive in two articulated lorries.” His voice was almost emotionless. “If it goes up … but it can be prevented.”

  “How?”

  Shard looked around for a moment at the deserted roadway. There was a heavy silence where there should be the increasing roar and thunder of London’s morning traffic, the start of the rush hour. It was an eerie silence; he answered the chief inspector’s question: “A safe conduct is asked for, that’s the first thing. Detachment X will leave the tunnel when the safe conduct is granted. They’re to be driven in two polic
e minibuses to a private airfield the whereabouts of which will be given once they’re on their way. Aircraft will be waiting for them. If the safe conduct is broken, the tunnel will be blown by remote control. That’s one thing. Here’s the other — they have demands.” Shard paused, took a deep breath, and went on. “They concern Northern Ireland — and the Republic. All political prisoners other than Ulster loyalists are to be released unconditionally from the Maze and Crumlin Road and all other prisons north and south of the border. They know this can’t be done quickly. But the tunnel’s at risk until it is done. All the people inside remain there however long it takes. They’ll be released twenty-four hours after the demands have been met.”

  There was a silence. It was broken by the chief inspector. “Do you believe they mean all this, Mr Shard?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been told to say that?”

  “Yes. But I believe it. They’ll do it — have no doubt about that.”

  “And the tunnel — once those men have gone under a safe conduct —”

  “No-one will be able to move in or out. The lorries carry equipment … a beam will cover the exits, both ends. Any movement in or out will trigger the explosion. And overall, the remote control facility remains.”

  Another silence, broken this time by the voice of O’Carse in rear of Shard. “Okay, that’s it. Back now.”

  *

  The conversation had been reported as it was taking place to the Foreign Office and the intent ear of Sir Edmund. When the call was finally cut he said, “Well, now we know.” He added, “Shard’s gone back inside.” Item by item, he had repeated the report to his audience. They all knew the score. It had been something no-one had suspected.

  Taft said, “Well now, see here … that Shard. Is he in cahoots? That bribery. Doesn’t sound too good to me and that’s a fact.”