“No,” Cornwall said at once. “That will only complicate things. If the rumors are true, you’ll need to clear everything through the Met in the future. Ilya is their witness now. Are we clear?”
“Clear enough,” Wolfe said. After being dismissed, she rose and left the office. Outside, the floor was nearly full. Everyone had come in early, waiting, like the rest of the city, for whatever the morning would bring.
When she returned to her cubicle, Asthana was nowhere in sight. Wolfe sat down, trying to put her thoughts into some kind of order. She couldn’t understand it. Ilya had refused for so long to say anything about his past, and now, suddenly, he had decided to cooperate with the Met. And although she didn’t want to admit it, part of her felt hurt by his decision, as if he had owed her something more.
As she brooded over this, something else occurred to her. Turning to her computer, she called up the day’s case listings, confirming that Ilya was scheduled to appear at a mention hearing at the Central Criminal Court.
Meanwhile, at the Royal Courts of Justice, Vasylenko was slated for his own appeal this morning as well.
Something about this second appeal had troubled her for some time. Dancy had waited well over a year to file an appeal that had almost no chance of being granted. Ilya’s court appearance, by contrast, had been strangely rushed. And it seemed especially odd to schedule two crucial hearings for the same day—
Wolfe began to feel uneasy. Before she knew what she was doing, she had taken out her phone to dial the main line at Belmarsh. After getting through, she asked for the receiving officer, who answered immediately. “Yes?”
She briefly explained who she was, sensing that the officer was not particularly interested, then asked, “Are today’s transports gone?”
“Right on schedule,” the officer said. “The van left about twenty minutes ago.”
“Just one van?” Her uneasiness, which had begun as a tingle at the nape of her neck, was spreading outward. “There aren’t any others?”
“Not these days. One van for two courts. Saves an extra trip. Cutbacks, you know—”
Wolfe broke in. “Listen, can you do me a favor? I need to know if two prisoners were on the transport van that left this morning. Their names are Ilya Severin and Grigory Vasylenko.”
“Hold on,” the officer said irritably. There was a pause before he spoke again. “Yes, they’re on the list.”
Wolfe thanked him and hung up. She sat at her desk for another moment, thinking. Both Ilya and Vasylenko had left the prison at the same time that morning, on the same van, on a day when the police were already stretched dangerously thin. She thought back to Cornwall’s words from a moment ago. Dancy, she had said, had to be playing another game—
A terrible possibility began to gather in her mind. Before she could give it a name, Wolfe found herself rising from her desk, sending her chair rolling backward. She picked up her coat and keys, then headed for the elevator, already dialing the prison again. Halfway across the floor, she broke into a run.
22
The man behind the wheel of the prison van was an officer named Andrew Ferris, who had worked for the security company for close to eight years. He had risen that morning in Plumstead feeling wary, given the events of the night before. After seeing the images on the news, he had been tempted to call in sick, but when he finally left home, the city had seemed fairly quiet.
All the same, he had been glad for the two additional guards, especially when he saw the burning bus lying across the highway. The sight had sent a pang of apprehension through his ample body, but in the end, it had turned out to be a minor inconvenience, forcing him only to take a detour along Little Heath.
At the moment, he was driving alongside the Royal Artillery Barracks in Woolwich. To his left ran a green fence topped with barbed wire, and beyond that, a row of trees. A brick housing block stood to the other side. Ferris was seated in the cab of the van, a partition separating him from the inmates in the rear, the prisoner escort stationed in the passenger seat beside him.
For most of the drive, inevitably, the two men had talked about the riots. “Police are just standing by,” the prisoner escort was saying. “Can’t bloody blame them, though, with the budget slashed all to hell. I wouldn’t get my head broken over a few boxes of trainers.”
Ferris only gave a noncommittal nod. Beyond the intersection, the road narrowed. They went past a wooded training ground, set off from the street by a brick wall, and as they drove by a vacant lot, neither man noticed the three vans, two white, one blue, that pulled into the road to follow.
“Of course, nobody gives a toss for the dead man,” the escort continued after a moment. “They’re just glad for the excuse to steal. Animals with cell phones. Posting pictures online for all to see—”
He broke off as the blue van, which had been tailing them, accelerated to pass and abruptly cut ahead. A second later, it halted without warning. Ferris slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a crash, as he and the escort were caught by their seat belts, swearing in unison.
To his right, a white panel van pulled up alongside the prison transport, screeching to a standstill. In his rearview mirror, Ferris saw an identical vehicle come up close behind, then saw the blue van reverse to within a few feet of their front bumper, pinning them in place.
Ferris looked to either side, panicked. Vehicles were blocking his way on three sides. On the fourth, a brick boundary wall lay between him and the woods. He was stuck. And it was only now, as he began to grasp the situation, that he really understood the predicament he was in.
The dented rear doors of the blue van flew open and two men holding shotguns slid out, their faces covered by white surgical masks. The one in front spoke loudly enough to be heard through the window: “Hands in the air, please.”
While the other figure kept his shotgun trained at the windshield, the first man came around to the driver’s side. Ferris, hands raised, risked a glance down at the radio console on the dashboard, then thought of the guards in the back of the transport van. He wanted to turn his head, but he didn’t dare.
The man at the driver’s door pointed his gun at Ferris’s head. Above his mask, his eyes were narrow but startlingly blue. “Roll the window down, turn the engine off, and take out the keys.”
Ferris obliged, his hands trembling. Once the keys were out, the gunman asked for their radios and cell phones, taking them one at a time and lobbing them over the wall of the training ground. “How many guards?”
“Two,” Ferris managed to say, his mouth dry. “They don’t have any guns.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw three more masked figures come running around to the front of the prison van. One of them dropped out of sight, an industrial cutter in his hands. Ferris heard him get to work underneath the vehicle and realized that he was slashing the brake and power cables.
He heard a metallic clang. Turning, he saw that two of the men who had just appeared were attaching a series of objects to the hood and driver’s door with magnets. They were green, round, and about ten inches across, and with a watery rush of fear, Ferris recognized them as limpet mines.
Slinging the shotgun over his shoulder, the man on the driver’s side pulled a radio remote from his back pocket and raised the aerial. “You know how this works. We’ll blow up the van if you don’t do exactly what we say. First, I want the keys for the sweatboxes.”
The prisoner escort, who had remained silent throughout all that had happened, found his voice at last. “Go to hell.”
Instead of responding, the man glanced over at someone who was standing just out of sight, as if to confirm that all was in place, and nodded. Then he pressed the button of the detonator.
Later, residents in the area would say that they had heard the explosion but assumed it was part of an exercise, since they were used to the sound of ordnance from drills at the barracks nea
rby. In fact, the remote set off a limpet mine that had been attached to the back door of the van a few seconds earlier, blowing the door off its hinges and rocking the vehicle on its frame.
Inside the rear of the van, the inmates were shouting. Ilya, who had undone his shackles and handcuffs long before, had been counting the seconds since the van halted. From outside, he heard more shouts as the guards inside the van were ordered out. He saw them file past his cubicle, their hands raised. A few seconds passed. And then the chain of his door was drawn back.
A moment later, the door swung open, revealing a figure in a surgical mask. Ilya came out at once and followed the man without a word to another cubicle. The masked figure, who was holding a shotgun and a bunch of keys, unfastened the chain and unlocked this door as well.
Vasylenko was seated inside, his eyes bright. Without being told, Ilya lowered himself to one knee and began examining the shackles around the vor’s legs. The man in the mask whispered tensely, “Come on, hurry up—”
Ilya ignored him, getting to work on the cuff around Vasylenko’s right ankle. It was easier this time, since he knew the insides of these locks by now, and the shackle snapped open almost at once.
“Never mind the other,” the man in the mask said. “Save it for Mare Street.”
Vasylenko shot him a look but said nothing as Ilya undid his handcuffs. Then the vor rose and went with Ilya toward the rear doors of the van, the loose chain of his leg irons trailing behind him. The man in the mask handed him a mobile phone, then went to open the remaining cubicles.
Ilya and Vasylenko climbed down from the van. Outside, the driver and guards were kneeling in the street, hands bound behind them with plastic cuffs, a man with a shotgun keeping watch. Up ahead, another man in a yellow traffic vest, his face cheerful, was handling crowd control, facing the line of honking cars in the lane behind them, the vans blocking the scene from view.
Hearing movement, Ilya turned to see the remaining prisoners climbing out of the van one by one, their mouths hanging open at the sight. Vasylenko spoke quietly. “This is your lucky day. If you like, you can turn yourselves in at the Woolwich police station. You’ll find it ten minutes back the way we came. Or you can run. The police, it seems, have other things on their minds.”
The prisoners appeared to get the message. Scattering in all directions, they shuffled away, their shackles ringing against the pavement as they ran. Vasylenko turned to study the officers kneeling on the ground. Finally, he gave a signal to the man standing watch, who yanked Andrew Ferris to his feet. The gunman hauled Ferris around to the blue van and shoved him inside, followed by Vasylenko and the others, a driver already behind the wheel.
Ilya was the last to climb in. He found himself seated across from Vasylenko, eye to eye with the vor, as the doors of the van swung shut. Faintly, in the distance, he heard sirens.
As they pulled into the road, the man holding the detonator slid its range switch to a new setting and pressed the button again. Through the rear window, Ilya saw the prison van and the other vehicles explode into orange blossoms of flame. Then he turned back to Vasylenko as they roared off into the waiting city.
23
When Wolfe arrived in Woolwich, traffic was at a standstill. Through her windshield, she saw flames and smoke. After trying in vain to find a way through, she finally parked illegally at the side of the road, grabbed her warrant card and phone, and ran toward the scene.
Up ahead, a pair of officers stood in the street, trying manfully but without much success to direct traffic to an alternate route. The prison transport van and two other vehicles sat behind them, burning. A few steps away, a sergeant was talking into his radio, which he set aside as Wolfe approached, holding out her warrant card. “I’m Rachel Wolfe. We spoke on the phone a minute ago.”
“I know who you are,” the sergeant said, drawing himself up slightly. He was clean-shaven and somewhat flushed. “That was the fire brigade. They’re on their way. They’re stretched pretty thin right now—”
“I know.” Wolfe took in the scene. A knot of bystanders had gathered to stare, keeping well back from the blaze. “What about the prisoners?”
“We’ve picked up a couple, but we don’t have enough men at hand to do a real search. A few turned themselves in at the station. We’re still looking for the assailants and the two they came to get.” The sergeant flipped his notebook open. “Blue panel van, dented rear doors.”
“I’ll get someone on it,” Wolfe said. “On the phone, you mentioned a lead?”
The sergeant nodded. “Just heard it myself. From one of the inmates who turned himself in. He was on remand for robbery, so he had no reason to run. Apparently he overheard one of the attackers. When they were freeing the prisoners, one of them said something about Mare Street.”
Wolfe recognized the name. “Mare Street. That’s up in Hackney, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. I’ve been trying to get a Trojan unit in place, but they’re all deployed elsewhere. And it’s already sticky on the ground.”
Wolfe knew what he meant. Looking at the wrecks of the vans, which were cooking away with no fire crew in sight, she saw what she had to do. “Give me your gear. I’m going there myself.”
The sergeant hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s wise. I can’t promise any backup—”
Wolfe broke in. “Listen, you know who I am, right? So you also know why I’m here. One of the men who escaped is someone I’ve met before. And I’m the only one who can get him back.”
Something in her eyes seemed to convince him. After a beat, he motioned for her to follow him to his panda car. Opening the trunk, he unloaded a set of riot gear, including a shield and helmet. As she took the sergeant’s baton, she felt faintly ridiculous, but she knew it was best to be prepared. Tossing the equipment into her own car, she headed back to the main highway, pushing it as much as she could, and passed a fire truck coming at last in the other direction.
As Wolfe headed north, she fumbled out her phone and dialed Asthana, who answered a few seconds later. Her partner sounded surprised. “What’s going on? I’m just about to go in for the deposition—”
“Cancel it,” Wolfe said, relieved to see that the road was fairly clear. “I need you to call Cornwall and anyone you can find at the enforcement directorate. Vasylenko and Ilya have escaped.”
There was a long pause. “Rachel, if this is some kind of joke, it isn’t funny.”
“It’s no joke.” Driving with one hand on the wheel, Wolfe filled Asthana in as quickly as possible, describing what the sergeant had told her. “The police don’t have the resources to handle this. We need to mobilize the agency. Someone has to check security cameras in Woolwich and sweep their cells at Belmarsh. See if we can get a news helicopter to do a pass over Hackney—”
As she drove, continuing to issue instructions as she blew past the posted limit, Wolfe was glad to have something to do, even as part of her brain was piecing together the rest of the story. If Vasylenko and Ilya were working together, with what appeared to be considerable resources, it meant something else was at play. Because no one did anything like this without a reason.
In time, she found herself approaching Hackney. As she neared the neighborhood, she passed another fire crew dousing the hulk of a burning car with foam. Buildings were still smoldering from the night before. Underlying it all was the faint maddening background noise of countless car alarms.
At Amhurst Road, traffic halted. Wolfe stopped, seeing that there was no way past the stalled cars and buses. “I’ll have to call you back.”
“Okay,” Asthana said. “I’ll call Cornwall. And I’m coming out there, too.”
“Then I’ll see you soon.” Wolfe hung up. Craning her neck to look past the cars, she saw that this was as far as she could go. She managed to pull over to the side of the road. Her heart was going like mad, but she did her best to collect he
rself as she slid the baton into her bag, leaving the rest for now, and got out.
She headed on foot up the block. Up ahead, a crowd was milling around in the street, looking at last night’s damage. Shops were boarded up and strung with police tape, and a bus shelter on the corner had been smashed to pieces, the ground strewn with broken glass. On the sidewalk before one of the stores, Wolfe noticed what looked like a scatter of body parts, then saw that they were the limbs of mannequins, like the unburied victims of some natural disaster.
Moving past the onlookers, many of whom were taking snapshots of the devastation on their phones, Wolfe continued on to Mare Street, which had been blocked off to vehicle traffic by a line of police vans. In front of this makeshift barricade stood a line of uniformed officers with helmets and plastic shields.
As she scanned the area, looking for the van that the sergeant had described, she observed that the crowd here was noticeably more agitated. A young black man in a hooded sweatshirt, his head large and babylike under its pile of braids, was standing a few steps away. Wolfe caught his eye. “What’s going on?”
“You don’t know?” He indicated the line of police, his voice curiously relaxed. “People flinging trash at coppers. They’ve got three guys from the neighborhood up against the town hall.”
She followed his gaze, which was fixed on the long row of helmets. “And what are you doing here?”
“Me?” He laughed. “I’m just trying to get home. But you’ll be fine, I’m sure.”
Thanking him, Wolfe moved on, more conscious than ever of the tension. Almost everyone had a cell phone out. She studied the crowd, trying to put herself into Ilya and Vasylenko’s place, and wondered if the situation here had been part of the plan, or if they had been forced to work around it—
A sound like the rustle of a baking sheet broke into her thoughts. Turning, she saw a pair of men breaking into a store down the street. They were wearing gray hoodies, with scarves wrapped across their faces, and were pulling away the metal barrier that had been lowered across the storefront. A second later, the barrier gave way, peeling back like the cover of a sardine tin, and the men squeezed inside, emerging moments later with armfuls of jeans and sneakers.
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