Ultimatum

by Simon Kernick

  ‘I heard from various sources that the Stanhope siege was bankrolled by an unfriendly Middle Eastern government.’

  ‘According to sources within MI6, there was financial backing from Arab sources within the Middle East, and at a high, possibly governmental, level, but there was help for the attackers from within the UK as well, and given the fact that half the terrorists were white former soldiers it’s very likely that it came from extreme right-wing elements, and ones with money. That’s why Fox could be so important to us. I need you to find out what he has to say.’

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tina. ‘But I want to be a part of your team. I’m not cut out for recycling low-level scumbags through the courts system, which is what I’m doing at the moment. Is there any way you can get me on board in a more permanent capacity?’

  Bolt sighed. ‘The work we do here’s low-key and secretive, and I don’t want someone who’s going to go on a one-woman crusade for justice, put herself and everyone around her in danger, get her face plastered all over the media, and end up compromising all our work. I’ll be straight with you, Tina. You’re a hothead, and it’s got you in a hell of a lot of trouble in the past. That’s why you’re a DC in a small CID office.’

  Tina had heard this all plenty of times before as she’d fought to get herself reinstated, but it still hurt coming from a man she’d once considered a good friend. ‘I’m still a good copper. You know that. And I get results.’ She leaned forward and looked him right in the eye. ‘Give me a chance, and you have my word that I won’t do a thing to compromise any part of your work. I mean it.’

  Bolt stood up, looking uncomfortable. ‘I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, you need to get going. Interviewing Fox is top priority, and that comes all the way from the top. There’s a helicopter waiting at New Scotland Yard to take you up to the prison where they’re holding him. I’ll get one of our people to give you a lift over there.’

  Tina got to her feet, feeling relieved and disappointed at the same time. She was glad to be in the thick of things again, but sad that her relationship with Bolt had become so distant. Theirs had always been a complicated one, yet he’d always stood by her when things had been tough. She owed him a lot more than he owed her, and it was a debt she knew she’d never be able to repay.

  ‘One thing before I go,’ she said. ‘A lot of people died in the Stanhope incident, and the inquiry to find out who’s behind it has got to be pretty major. So, why does this place feel so empty?’

  ‘We’re a small team. Manpower’s a problem these days. With all the cuts going on, and the resources they’ve pumped into the phone-hacking scandal, the Met’s running extremely low on detectives.’ He shrugged, seeing her expression. ‘I know, I don’t like it either, but that’s just the way it is. Also, up until about an hour ago, we’ve effectively been working on a hunch. We’ve always believed there was UK involvement, but there’s never been any proof. And there’s another reason too. The smaller the team, the less chance there is of a leak to the bad guys. The fact that a senior CTC man like John Cheney was working for the terrorists scared a lot of people. That’s why I’ve agreed to work with you, Tina. You’re a hell of a lot of things, and not all of them good, but one thing’s for certain: you’re definitely not corrupt.’

  Tina smiled. ‘I’m flattered.’

  They looked at each other, and something – a flash of their old friendship – passed between them.

  ‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said. ‘Considering what you’ve already been through this morning, you look great.’

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ she said. And she meant it.

  Ten

  09.50

  THERE ARE NO noble causes.

  They tell you there are, but they’re lying. When they sent me to Iraq they said we’d be liberating a downtrodden people from the shackles of a brutal dictatorship, but all we did was destabilize the whole region and start a civil war that’s still rumbling on today, losing a lot of good people in the process. And in Afghanistan they said we’d be in the forefront of the fight against global terrorism, and helping to keep the streets of Britain safe for present and future generations.

  Bullshit.

  The streets are no safer because we went there. In fact, they’re probably a lot less safe. The world’s Muslim extremists – the kind we were supposed to be defeating – can come and go inside Britain as they please, safe in the knowledge that, thanks to the Human Rights Act and the parasitic lawyers who uphold it, they can’t be deported. And they hate us even more because of what we’re doing in Muslim countries. We’re international aggressors and domestic appeasers, which seems to me to be the worst kind of combination there is.

  And the politicians who sent us to those Godforsaken countries are sitting pretty at home, eating their vol-au-vents, fucking their secretaries, and fiddling their expenses, while harping on about freedom and sacrifice and all that shit, even though it’s not them who’ve lost limbs in IED attacks, or seen their best mate’s brains splattered all over some dusty rock thanks to a sniper’s bullet.

  I did two tours of Afghanistan and we didn’t change a damn thing. Not a jot. The moment western forces leave, the Taliban will be all over the country like a rash. And you know why? Because they don’t want our democracy. Most of them don’t even have a clue what it is, and the few who do think it contradicts God’s law anyway, so won’t have anything to do with it. Democracy to them just means corruption – and one look at the western-backed government in Kabul and you can see they’ve got a point. So the whole thing will have been a complete waste of time, money and, most of all, the blood of far too many good men.

  We changed cars less than a mile from the scene of the robbery, switching to a Renault Mégane saloon Cecil had parked under some trees next to a stretch of deserted waste ground near the Lockwood reservoir. No one saw us as we torched the car we’d used for the robbery, along with the police caps. We kept the guns, though. In a country like Britain where even semi-automatic weapons are almost impossible to come by, they were way too valuable, and after putting them and the money in the boot, we changed into suit jackets and ties, got in our car, and drove off in the direction of Enfield. All without being seen. Even in the centre of a city like London you can still find some lonely places where people don’t go at ten o’clock on a cold, grey February morning.

  I was still pumped up with a mix of adrenalin and anger. The plan had been to hold up LeShawn and his men and make them give up the cash with threats, a few shots into their car, but no actual violence. That way, even if there’d been witnesses, and the police had found empty shell casings at the scene, the crime would never have been reported. LeShawn was hardly going to say anything, and people who live near crackhouses tend to learn to look the other way. In other words, it should have been perfect.

  But now LeShawn was dead. He might have been an arsehole and I might not have pulled the trigger, but that wasn’t much consolation. First off, the robbery had been a joint enterprise, which meant I was just as responsible for his murder as Cecil was in the eyes of the law. And second, I’d shot up a cop car, ripped the front of it to shreds, and scared the living shit out of the people inside, thereby making myself a very active participant. Worse, pulling the trigger had felt way too good.

  My name’s Jones by the way. Richard Burnham-Jones to be exact, but I always hated the names Richard, Rick, Richie, and especially Dick, and I’m not a big fan of double barrels, so it’s always been Jones, which suits me fine. And I’m not a bad man either, whatever first impressions might suggest. You could say I’ve got in with the wrong crowd, and you’d be absolutely right, but not quite for the reasons you might think.

  It was a cold day but I could feel the sweat on my brow, and I used my forearm to wipe it away.

  ‘What the fuck happened back there, Jones?’ demanded Cecil, fixing me with one of his trademark glares. ‘You almost let me down.’

  The two of us have known each other a long ti
me. We’ve served together in a war zone, and that creates a bond that other men just don’t have. That didn’t mean Cecil didn’t scare me. He did. He scared everyone. He might only have been a short bald guy, but he was also lean and wiry, with an intense energy that seemed to emanate from him in waves, and eyes like pieces of flint. Even his voice, with its hard Belfast growl, spelled aggression. Luckily, I knew how to handle him.

  ‘If I’d fired when we were fighting, I could have hit anyone, including you,’ I said. ‘That’s the problem when there are only two of us on the job. It was always going to be risky.’

  ‘You’re not going soft on me are you, big man?’ Cecil didn’t care that he’d just killed someone. As far as he was concerned, they’d disobeyed instructions, got what was coming to them, and now he’d moved on. That was what he was like.

  ‘I just shot up a cop car, Cecil, so no, I’m not going soft. We needed a bigger team, that’s all. I told you that before we got involved. I thought you had friends we could use.’

  ‘This was a test, Jones. To check your loyalty.’

  ‘I’m not interested in tests. You know you can trust me. We’ve got history.’ And we did. We had secrets too, forged on the battlefields of Helmand Province.

  There was a pause, and then he nodded slowly. ‘I think it may be time to go up to the next level,’ he said, finding a gap in the parked cars at the side of the road and pulling up. ‘But first I’ve got to make a quick phone call.’

  We were outside a parade of shabby-looking shops, and I watched as Cecil passed a group of even more shabby-looking drunks on a bench shouting incoherently to each other in what sounded like Polish. As I looked on, one tried to stand up and simply toppled over on his side, landing against a large overflowing litter bin, much to the mirth of the others, before rolling over on the pavement while somehow keeping his drink intact. A young woman in a business suit hurried past, head down and giving them a wide berth.

  No, there are no noble causes. If you fight for something you believe in, innocent people will always get hurt, and even if you achieve whatever goal it is you’ve set yourself, it’ll always end up being a hollow victory, because everything comes at a price.

  Cecil walked back to the car, giving the drunks a sideways look that temporarily silenced all of them, and got back inside.

  ‘There’s someone who wants to meet you.’

  And that was when I knew I was in.

  Eleven

  10.26

  THE MAN WAS parked in a deserted stretch of woodland bordering a golf course just inside the M25 when he got off the phone to Cecil. He had an iPad on his lap and was watching Sky News as they continued their frenetic coverage of the coffee shop bomb attack. So far, actual hard news was scarce; they were relying on eyewitness reports and continued footage of the scene from the Sky News Copter. The fire in the café was now out, but the street was still full of emergency vehicles. According to the rolling newsreel on the bottom of the screen six people had so far been confirmed dead, with more than thirty wounded, but the death toll was expected to rise. There were also unconfirmed reports that a previously unknown terror group had claimed responsibility, that the bomber himself had fled the café before the explosion, and that he’d been arrested.

  This last rumour concerned him. They’d used Akhtar Mohammed so that the attack could be blamed on Islamic fundamentalists. If it was revealed that he’d been blackmailed into delivering the bomb, then their plan fell to pieces. Worse still, Mohammed would be able to identify Martha Crossman as the intended target.

  There was nothing he could do about this now, though, so he sat patiently, staring at the iPad’s screen, waiting for the signal to go to the next stage.

  Sure enough, a little over five minutes later it finally came as the anchorwoman interrupted her interview with the Sky security correspondent to announce further breaking news. Viewers had been calling the newsroom to report that large numbers of armed police had surrounded a block of flats in Bayswater, barely a couple of miles from where the coffee shop bomb had exploded, and were in the process of evacuating the surrounding area. A minute after that the security correspondent announced live on air that he’d received confirmation from a source at New Scotland Yard that an ongoing armed operation was underway.

  This was the amazing thing about modern life, thought the man. The speed with which news travelled was almost instantaneous. There were plenty of positives in this. It meant citizens were generally kept well informed. It made it difficult for dictatorships to hide their guilty secrets. Unfortunately, it also allowed the bad guys to monitor the progress of the security forces highly effectively.

  The screen had switched back to the Sky News Copter which was now circling above the block of flats where he’d shot dead Mika and booby-trapped her body over two hours earlier. Dozens of black-clad police were moving like ants round the front of the building as they formed a cordon around it and evacuated residents from the surrounding flats. Clearly they’d traced the mobile phone he’d used to make the call claiming responsibility for the café bomb, as he’d anticipated. Of course, they wouldn’t be reckless and go storming in, even though he could see that a number of them were CO19, with their trademark Heckler and Kochs. First they’d need to secure the area, finish the evacuation of any civilian within a hundred yards, then make a risk assessment, before even thinking of trying to get into the flat where the dead woman lay with the bomb and the phone on top of her. The whole thing would take hours. The man smiled. He knew this would happen, which was why there was a second bomb in the boot of one of the cars in the parking area directly in front of the building. The device contained twenty kilos of PETN explosives in two large bags, surrounded by a further twenty kilos of assorted shrapnel – and, like the bomb on Mika, it was timed to go off in two minutes exactly.

  So far no one seemed to be taking any notice of the parked cars, although the senior officers on the scene would get round to checking them fairly soon. They’d probably already blocked the mobile phone signal in the immediate area to prevent any booby-trap bombs being set off remotely. Secondary devices were a known hallmark of Islamic terrorists. At the moment, though, the situation on the ground was still in its early semi-chaotic stages.

  The man looked at his watch. One minute to detonation.

  He took a cheap mobile phone from the outer pocket of his jacket and speed-dialled the single number stored on it. ‘This is the Islamic Command,’ he announced into the voice disguiser as the man on the Evening Standard news desk picked up. ‘Two more bombs are about to explode. There will be no further attacks if our demands are met.’ He ended the call and switched off the phone, throwing it out of the window into some bushes.

  The Sky News Copter was still filming the scene when there was a huge flash of light, accompanied by a very loud bang, from among the parked cars, followed moments later by a second blast from inside one of the flats. The camera shook and the helicopter banked, temporarily losing its view of the scene as the programme suddenly went to split screen, showing a visibly shaken anchorwoman with her hand on her mouth as it became clear to her that she’d just witnessed a second bomb attack.

  The man shut the iPad case, and pulled away from the kerb.

  It was time to meet their new recruit.

  Twelve

  10.40

  HMP WESTMOOR WAS a very big, very bland-looking modern prison set slap bang in the middle of glorious rolling Hertfordshire countryside. It was, Tina thought, like some kind of immense fortified municipal library, and it had been an act of architectural barbarism to put it in such a beautiful place.

  As she walked towards the reception area, it struck her that she could very easily have ended up in a place like this. It was only a little over a year since she’d killed a man with a single blow to the head. The fact that the man in question, twenty-one-year-old Liam Roy Shetland, had been one of the terrorists involved in the Stanhope siege and was about to murder two kidnapped children was still not perceived as
sufficient justification for what she’d done.

  Although she and Shetland had been fighting, and Tina had sustained a number of injuries herself, he’d had his back to her when she’d hit him with a piece of piping, and for weeks afterwards charges had been hanging over her head. She’d been lucky. Public and political pressure had helped her, as had the fact that Shetland was going for a gun at the time. Tina was a hero in some people’s eyes, the kind of tough, no-nonsense cop that the UK was sorely lacking these days. ‘Dirty Harriet’ the Daily Mail had called her, which was far more preferable than ‘The Black Widow’ moniker that had haunted her ever since one of her colleagues had been killed on a job they were both working on. Politicians, sniffing an opportunity as always, had also got involved, singing her praises (but with plenty of caveats, of course), several of them pushing for her reinstatement in the force, which was how she’d finally ended up in Westminster CID.

  Westmoor was a maximum-security prison, housing only Category A offenders, and those awaiting trial for the most serious crimes. It was built in a wheel shape, with the six spokes representing separate wings, each of which could be sealed off from the others, and a separate prison-within-a-prison section in the centre where only those guilty of, or charged with, the most serious crimes were held, and it was here that Fox was currently residing.

  Having filled out all the forms and passed through security, Tina’s first port of call, however, was the governor’s office.

  The governor, a tall white-haired man in his sixties with a slight stoop, a bow tie, and the air of a weary academic, got up from behind a cluttered desk next to the room’s only window. ‘I’m Jeremy Goodman,’ he said, giving her a surprisingly firm handshake and a quick once-over, before motioning her to take a seat opposite him. ‘So you’re the famous Tina Boyd. I’ve read a lot about you over the years.’