by Chris Simms
‘You’re right.’ Standing up, Jim started shooing Chas and Fraser towards the doors. ‘Out! Everyone out! We leave this to the specialists.’
Chas and Fraser started backing away, Ian cursing when one of them stood on his foot. The retreating press of bodies forced the other armed officer out of the door.
Jim gestured for Tony to go in front of him, the heavy metal torch held at his side. He focused on the back of the man’s head, the curve of bone just behind his ear. Now, he thought. He lifted the torch up and brought it down in a sharp chopping movement, knowing the impact would cause the officer to blackout for a few seconds.
Tony’s legs buckled and he fell forward on to his knees. With one hand, Jim reached out to the door and shut them both in. The Glock was free an instant later, Tony toppling senselessly into a cabinet, the glass immediately splintering. From the other side of the door came a shout.
‘Tony! What’s going on! Tony!’
Jim pulled Tony by the straps of his vest away from the cabinet and carefully lay him down across the base of the door.
‘Tony!’ his colleague shouted from outside. ‘You OK in there!’
Jim plunged into the dark opening at the other end of the room and turned the torch back on.
The lift doors to the hotel lobby opened on a wall of backs. Among the police uniforms were people in civilian clothes. She spotted curling wires emerging from earpieces to vanish down collars. Security personnel, she thought, from any number of organizations.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. None of them reacted; all their attention was focused towards the hotel entrance. ‘Excuse me!’
Several turned their heads to examine her with indifferent expressions. Their unwillingness to move suddenly made her feel trapped inside the lift. Anxiety surged up from her stomach.
‘I need to get past!’
A ripple of movement and she squeezed through a gap. Out on Deansgate she could see unmarked vehicles blocking off the road, lights silently flickering behind their radiator grilles. Her own vehicle had vanished.
A police motorbike swept into view from the direction of Great Bridgewater Street. They’re on their way, Iona thought. They’re coming.
Immaculately dressed hotel staff were lined up behind the front desk. Iona crossed the lobby as quickly as she could without actually running. ‘Who is in charge of the building’s utilities?’
A smartly turned out lady of about forty, black hair scraped back in a tight ponytail, inclined her head. ‘My name’s Georgina and I’m the assistant duty manager. Is there a problem?’
Iona nodded. ‘I need a caretaker or whatever the title is.’
‘We do have a maintenance department. But if it’s just a problem with your air conditioning or hot water, it’s normally possible to get—’
‘Air conditioning?’ Unobtrusively, Iona placed her identity on the counter. ‘Where is the air conditioning controlled from?’
More police and plain-clothes officers were filing in through the main doors.
‘There’s a plant in the basement. The units are located down there.’
‘For the entire building?’
‘Yes.’
‘Including the Sky Bar?’
‘Yes.’
‘I need access, right now.’
The woman leaned forward. ‘You do realize the whole building has been searched?’ she whispered. ‘I think they even put security tape on the door to the plant room.’
They won’t have entered through the doors, Iona thought. They’ll have come up from below. ‘Please, get whoever it is immediately.’
The employee lifted the phone and pressed a button. ‘Is Walter still on duty? Please send him to front reception. Yes, right now.’ She replaced the phone. ‘He’s coming. As I said, your colleagues were very thorough; they are every year. The building’s residents have to hand in their key fobs for the underground car park weeks before the conference starts. The concierge buzzes each person through in person.’
Iona was transferring her weight from foot to foot, arms tightly crossed. ‘How many people live here?’
‘In the apartments above the Sky Bar? About two hundred and twenty.’
‘And the hotel part?’
‘There are two hundred and eighty-five rooms.’
‘Fully booked?’
‘Always when the conference is on. But everyone is vetted.’
‘So right now, in this building, how many people are here?’
‘I don’t know – including staff, about one thousand.’
Iona was thinking about the exact location of the huge tower. It stood between the wide lanes of Deansgate and the site of the conference centre. There was no need for any tunnel to branch out far from beneath the road – not if the tower was the target.
‘Ah, Walter. Could you show this police officer the basement?’
A grey-haired man with a bulbous red nose was approaching from the direction of a Staff Only door at the end of the counter. He wore white overalls. ‘Morning.’
Iona stepped towards him then halted. She looked over at the lifts. There were now about ten uniformed officers gathered there. Several looked like they were Tactical Aid Group – massive great blokes trained for dealing with crowd disorder. She veered off in their direction. ‘Can I borrow a couple of you, please?’
They regarded her in the usual assessing way. ‘You what, love?’
She raised her badge. ‘We need to check the plant room down in the basement.’ She dropped her voice for emphasis. ‘It’s very urgent.’
A dubious look passed along the line before one stepped forward. ‘Always happy to accompany a lady in distress. I’m Marcus.’
‘Cheers, Marcus. And who’s coming with you?’
He beckoned to a colleague. ‘Come on, Stewart.’
‘Thanks,’ Iona said as another left the line. She gestured at Walter. ‘Let’s go. Quick as you can.’
He led them back to the door he’d come through. A couple of steps down and they entered a long corridor, one side of which was clogged with cardboard boxes. ‘I’ve told them that’s a fire hazard,’ Walter said, pointing down. ‘They don’t listen.’
After turning left, they passed two more sets of doors before reaching a stairwell. ‘You want the plant room? Incoming services? Gas, water, electricity? Boilers?’
‘Wherever the air conditioning units are,’ Iona responded.
‘Same place. It’s two flights down. The plant room is located at the end of the lower one.’
‘On which side of the building?’ Iona trailed him down the bare concrete steps, the uniformed officers’ utility belts clinking behind her. ‘Is it the side nearest to Deansgate?’
‘Yes, side nearest Deansgate.’
Not much more than the width of the pavement away, she thought. ‘You worked here long, Walter?’
‘Me? Since it opened.’
‘What was here before this thing went up?’
‘Well, the building’s footprint was dictated by the arches and buttresses supporting the railway going into the Great Northern Warehouse. All of it was swept away when they dug the foundations – which were far easier to lay than planned.’
‘Because?’
‘They hit load-bearing rock much sooner than anticipated. So they did away with the deepest pilings and just sat the building directly on it.’
‘Would that have been sandstone?’
‘Very good,’ he said, sounding impressed at her knowledge.
At the bottom of the stairs, Walter pushed through another door and into a starkly lit passageway. ‘That way into the car park,’ he said, setting off in the opposite direction. ‘And this is us.’
He stopped at a stainless-steel door marked, No Access. Below that was a black and yellow graphic of a man being speared by a jagged line. Electricity. Danger of Death. From beyond it came a low humming noise, like a small aircraft preparing for take-off. The same type of tape she’d seen in the visitor centre in the Great Northern
Warehouse had been stretched across the door and surrounding frame.
‘No one’s been inside,’ he said, running his forefinger across it. ‘See? They were down here inspecting it again first thing this morning.’
‘What will we see on the other side?’ Iona asked quietly. Her head felt light and a tingling sensation was going through her legs.
‘A lot of machinery.’
‘Including the air conditioning?’
‘No. Boilers first. Air-con units are housed inside a smaller room at the other end.’
‘Will it be locked?’
‘No, shouldn’t be.’
‘OK. We need to check inside.’
‘You’ll vouch for me breaking this tape?’
‘Yes. Please hurry.’ She turned to the pair of officers. ‘You got CS spray?’
They nodded, both removing small canisters from the pouches on their utility belts.
‘What is this about?’ the one called Stewart asked.
‘We’re after two male suspects. Shorter one could be a handful. Possibly armed.’
Next to her, Walter was peeling the tape off the door.
‘Armed with what?’ Marcus asked uneasily.
‘Knife.’
‘Hang on,’ Stewart said, ‘if they’ve got weapons, we should call for armed response, shouldn’t we?’
‘If there was time,’ Iona shot back.
‘Bloody hell.’
He closed up the zip of his stab-proof vest before removing his telescopic truncheon and extending it out. His colleague did the same.
‘Quick as you can, Walter,’ Iona whispered.
He slid a thick key into the lock, turned it through three-hundred-and-sixty degrees, took it out and stood back. ‘It’s open.’
Entire sections of the wooden door at the end of the narrow passage had rotted away. Aware he didn’t have much time, Jim turned the torch off and stared at the gaps. The darkness beyond was absolute. He flicked the torch on again and swung the door back on its warped and rusted hinges.
Voices carried down from the storage room he’d just left behind. ‘Tony? Tony? Shit, mate, what . . .’
‘Where is he? He took my fucking gun!’
A small step down and then damp earth. Multiple sets of footprints led off to the side. He lifted the torch beam and a wide tunnel with an arched roof jumped into view. The ceiling was furred with thousands of stubby white stalactites. He shone the torch off to the right and, across the mounds of earth rising up from the floor, he could just make out a brick wall blocking off the tunnel. It was about thirty metres away.
He looked back. Shadows were moving in the storage room at the other end of the passageway. A voice called out.
‘You are fucked, mate? You hear me?’ It was Tony, shouting. ‘I will fucking fill you in, you mad fuck! You hear me?’
Satisfied they weren’t coming after him, Jim turned and started to follow the tracks, quickly becoming aware of the temperature. It was like being in a giant fridge. He’d got to within ten metres of the tunnel’s end when he spotted smashed bricks scattered round an opening at one side. The footprints led straight to it.
Marcus put a hand on Iona’s shoulder. ‘I think we’d better go first, don’t you?’
‘Why?’ she replied, irked by the tone in his voice.
‘For a start, we’re armed. And I don’t think you’ve got body armour on under that fleece.’
Begrudgingly, she stepped aside.
As he pushed the handle down it squeaked slightly. Bringing up his truncheon, he pushed the door open. A concrete floor and a forest of pipes wrapped in foil. The thrum of electrical equipment picked up and a wave of heat washed over them. White metal panelling encased a row of six machines that were far taller than Iona. Fat pipes rose up from their tops and went straight through the ceiling.
‘Air-con units are the other end,’ Walter whispered behind them.
The uniformed officers looked round at Iona, eyebrows raised.
‘You sure about this?’ Marcus sounded uncertain.
‘I’ll go first, if you want,’ she murmured back.
A glance bounced between the two men and they stepped through the door. The room was about thirty feet long and a shade less in width. The ceiling was made to feel even lower by the intricate arrangement of pipes running across it. To their right, squat metal objects resembling fire hydrants lined the floor, each one with solid-looking pipes running off them. Gas or water, Iona guessed, shadowing the officers as they moved down the aisle towards a wooden door at the far end.
A triple beep sounded somewhere off to their side and the hum coming from one of the white machines dropped away. A second set of beeps and another machine fell slowly silent. From behind the door at the end of the room, they heard a metallic clink as something dropped on the floor. A blurred and indistinct voice spoke inside.
Marcus held up a hand with three fingers outstretched. His colleague nodded, canister of CS spray ready. Marcus flexed his shoulders then dropped his fingers one by one to form a fist. He raised up a boot and kicked at the spot just below the door handle.
It flew open and Iona glimpsed Vassen and Ranjit kneeling before a grey cabinet set against the side wall. The controls for the air conditioning, she thought. Next to the pair was a jagged hole in the concrete floor. Both men were covered in reddish dust and pale fragments of stone. There was a bang as the door hit the wall. It swung back, cutting off their view.
‘It’s them! Go, go, go!’ Iona yelled.
Suddenly coming to life, the two officers barged through the door, both shouting. ‘Police! Police! Get down! Police! Down!’
Vassen scrabbled backwards, arms raised in surrender.
Ranjit jumped into a crouch, one hand flat on the floor. His eyes darted about.
‘Get on your front!’ Marcus roared, raising his baton up. ‘Now! On your stomach, now!’
Vassen fell into a prone position, arms out at his sides. He appeared to be crying.
Stewart was moving to the side, can of CS spray held towards Ranjit, whose entire body was rigid. Like a cornered animal, Iona thought, registering the briefcase on the floor. Inside was a row of powder-filled vials and a pair of face masks. The casing below the controls for air conditioning had been removed.
Marcus advanced another step closer to Ranjit. ‘Do as I say! On your front!’
The only parts of Ranjit that moved were his eyes: they skittered about, settling on Iona for a moment before moving on once more.
He’s going to do something, she thought, wishing for some kind of weapon.
‘Spray him,’ Marcus ordered his colleague. ‘Give him a face-full, the fucker isn’t listening.’
But then Ranjit went down on his knees. Slowly he bent forward, and placed both hands on the ground. As Stewart started unhooking the quick-cuffs from his belt, Iona spotted a slight movement of Ranjit’s head. She realized he was looking at the hole in the floor.
With amazing speed, he moved sideways. One moment he was above the opening, the next he was dropping into it. Iona leaped forward, trying to catch hold of him as he vanished from sight. She peered into the dark hole and then up at the nonplussed officers. ‘We’ve got to go after him!’
Marcus took a step forward and looked in. ‘You’re joking.’
Shaking his head, Stewart continued to restrain Vassen. ‘What does it join? Get him at the other end.’
‘It’s a network,’ Iona stated. ‘If no one follows, we’ll lose him!’
Stewart was kneeling beside Vassen. ‘You think either of us could fit into that? Listen, whatever they were planning, it’s—’
Iona had turned to Marcus. ‘Then give me your belt.’
‘What?’
‘Your utility belt, come on, quick.’
‘You’re seriously going after him?’ Looking bewildered, he started undoing it.
‘Someone has to,’ she said, pulling it out of his hands.
‘That’s a really bad move,’ Stewart mut
tered, removing his knee from the small of Vassen’s back.
After securing the belt round her waist, she unclipped the small torch and looked into the dark hole once again. Do not think about this, she said to herself. Just do it. Don’t pause. If you pause, you’ll back out. She shone the torch into the small opening. The layer of concrete had been chipped away and, below it, she could see reddish stone. A smooth, narrow tunnel branched off at ninety degrees.
Sitting down, she dangled her legs into the opening, part of her expecting a pair of hands to grab her by the ankles and drag her in. Come on, Iona. Come on, Iona.
‘You’re really doing this? Stewart asked.
Vassen, now handcuffed shook his head, as if warning her not to.
‘Don’t touch that suitcase. I think that’s ricin in the vials.’ She began to lower herself down.
Emerging on the other side of the opening knocked through the partition wall, Jim found another section of tunnel. His forearms were covered in reddish brick dust and he raised the Glock to blow the coating from its metallic surface.
The tunnel in front was almost completely blocked by a massive pile of mortar chunks welded together by concrete. He could see cloth sacking in the rubble at its edges and, shining the torch up, he saw the mound rose up to plug a hole in the ceiling. No doubt where workmen on a building site above had accidentally broken through.
Following the footprints, he skirted round the obstruction and splashed through a shallow expanse of black water on the other side.
The tunnel ended at another partition comprised of bricks that were uniform in size and shape. Manufactured, he realized, in a modern kiln. He swept the torch back and forth, looking for tell-tale debris. The wall was intact.
Directing the beam straight down, he searched for footprints. The earth all around him seemed to be undisturbed. That couldn’t be right. He walked slowly along the partition, examining the mortar for any that had been chipped away. Every brick was cemented firmly in place. The trail of footprints had vanished.
Totally confused, he shone the torch behind him, light catching on the ripples he’d created just before. A feeling of utter desolation hit him as he realized he’d been wrong. The two brothers had explored this section of tunnel, he was sure of that. But they’d given up on it. The implications of his mistake started to reverberate in his head. He looked at the Glock in his hand. What was I thinking? They’ll lock me up for this. Iona. He closed his eyes. I failed her. She’s up there somewhere. And so are the Bhujuns, free to launch their attack.
