by Ted Tayler
“On the other hand, if I cut the boot wires first and interrupt his devious little scheme, has he got another surprise hidden away for me?” muttered Travis.
Phoenix pulled a coin from his pocket. Rusty tapped his head. The coin hung in the air. Phoenix caught it. It was tails.
“Cut the boot wires first, definitely,” he said.
“Here goes nothing,” said Travis and cut the wires.
There was silence; followed by a long sigh of relief.
Travis cut the wires that then immobilised the mobile phone. He pushed the back seats into position until they clicked into place. He hot-wired the car and drove along the lane, turning around at the bottom.
“Where do I go from here, lads?” he asked.
“Turn right and go over the bridge and park up on Wapping Road. We’ll take it back to Larcombe Manor and dispose of everything there later. Well done, Travis.”
“How come you’re so familiar with these car bombs then Phoenix?” asked Travis, “you were so sure it was the boot first. That gave me the confidence to do it. I was bricking it big-time here. I couldn’t be sure.”
“I just follow the KISS principle, Travis.”
Rusty and Brad just shook their heads and smiled. One down, five to go.
The search for the terrorists continued.
Imran Nawaz and the others prepared to move out from the rooms above the shop. They checked the clock on the wall for the hundredth time. It was eleven forty-five.
“Time to go,” Imran said. They walked downstairs and waited to exit the shop. The elderly couple who stood by the counter turned their heads and stared. Three garish clown masks stared back at them. The couple also saw an overweight Muslim man and a heavily pregnant woman.
The terrorists left the shop one by one. The clowns left first and walked towards Pero’s Bridge. Each carried a bunch of coloured balloons. Mohammed flicked open his mobile phone. Ten to twelve. He selected a number and made the call. There was no explosion. He checked the mobile phone again. He dialled again. He tossed the phone into the river. They could still achieve their goal. His bomb must have malfunctioned. Mohammed would do it himself. He would open the boot. He left Hassan and Jamshed as they walked off towards Prince’s Wharf and walked into Farr’s Lane from the quayside.
The car had gone. It was approaching five to twelve. The Royal car would be leaving the Old Vic in minutes. He could mingle with the crowds and pass out balloons to the children. When the car passed by him, he would detonate his vest. He would be victorious; his name legendary.
As Mohammed Khawaja stood gazing at the spot where his beloved bomb had been waiting to cause carnage he looked up towards Prince Street. A man with a hat pulled over his ears, and a scarf around the lower part of his face turned towards him. Mohammed pulled his gun from under his outer clothing. He didn’t get the gun up into a position to fire.
Rusty’s bullet entered Mohammed’s brain through the left eye of his clown’s mask. He slumped against the wall and slid to the pavement. The balloons rose sedately into the air and floated off towards the quayside.
“Phoenix,” said Rusty into his comms mouthpiece, “I need a hand with this clown. Let’s get him in a dumpster for now. We can pick him up later. Everyone listen. Clowns; we’re looking for clowns with balloons.”
Travis parked the Renault in Wapping Road. Jamshed and Hassan had crossed over to Wapping Wharf and approached the crowds gathered by the M Shed. Jamshed looked back to see if he could see Imran and Salma. They were due to be walking up Prince Street towards the oncoming Royal limousine. He could only see balloons floating in the sky. Why hadn’t the car bomb exploded by now? It had to be ten to twelve by now?
Hassan didn’t see the balloons. He was looking up Wapping Road. The car that had pulled into the side of the road looked familiar. Was it the Renault? Surely it couldn’t be? Had the British authorities discovered it and moved it to a place of safety? Was the bomb still armed? He walked across the road. He released his balloons. Hassan was determined to detonate his vest once he reached the car. He must give the others the distraction they needed to complete the successful mission they craved.
Hassan drew his gun and held it by his side. The driver had stepped out of the Renault. Hassan raised his gun and fired. The driver fell to the ground. Hassan closed the distance between him and the car. He fired at the man on the ground. It was unnecessary; Travis Knight was dead.
Hassan moved his hand towards the side of his costume to detonate his bomb. Jack ‘Jelly’ Mould lay on top of a building on Canon’s Way on the other side of the river. He was a mere three hundred metres away as the bullet flies. He sent two bullets unerringly into the back of Hassan Ashiq’s head. Jack Mould packed away his gear and contacted Kelly Dexter to tell her they had lost an agent. He moved towards Pero’s Bridge to rejoin his crew.
Kelly instructed Hayden Vincent to clean up as best he could for now.
“Put Travis in the front of the Renault and the suicide bomber in the back. We’ll sort it out once we find the other clowns.”
Jamshed Saswar heard the sounds of a car backfiring. Everything was confused by the hubbub of the crowds surrounding him. He looked up and saw balloons high in the sky. What was happening? Children tugged at his costume, asking him for a balloon. He thrust the lot into the hands of a young boy and ran towards the M Shed.
Jamshed fumbled for his gun with his left hand. He was spotted by the Bristol police officers on duty outside the M Shed museum. Someone shouted a warning. Two young officers ran towards him. They tackled him and he fell heavily. He was winded.
Brad’s second explosives expert knew that staying in covert mode was not going to hack it, not in this situation. As Jamshed Saswar struggled with his assailants, Calvin Lyons ran to help. He stamped a booted foot on Jamshed’s right wrist.
“Cheers mate, but we’ve got this,” said one of the policemen.
“He’s got a detonator in his right-hand pocket for the suicide vest he’s wearing under that costume,” said Calvin. “He carried his balloons in that hand. My guess is he’s left-handed. That gun you’ve just wrestled from him was in his left hand, yes?”
The two policemen nodded and chalk-faced looked up at Calvin Smith.
“Shit,” they said in harmony, “what are you RPS?”
“Near enough,” said Calvin, who disabled the detonator and watched the colour return to the young lad's faces. He walked behind them as Jamshed was securely handcuffed and taken away to a waiting police van.
The policemen delivered their prisoner to their colleagues and returned to take a statement and a few details from the man who had rushed to their help. He was gone; nowhere to be seen. Calvin Lyons had slipped away into the crowds and found Kelly and Hayden. They had moved back across the bridge into Prince Street. There were no more clowns on this side of the bridge. What happened to the rest of the squad?
Phoenix and Kelly counted the cost of the mission so far.
“We’ve accounted for Mohammed Khawaja,” Phoenix reported.
“Hassan Ashiq is dead; Jamshed Saswar has been taken into custody by the police,” added Kelly. “I’m sorry Brad, but Travis Knight didn’t make it. Ashiq shot him just after he had parked the Renault.”
“Thanks, Kelly,” said Brad “he saved hundreds of dead and wounded when he dismantled the car bomb. He can be proud. We need to find the other two and finish the job. We owe him that.”
The remaining seven Olympus agents spread out on both sides of the street, searching the crowds for balloons and people in clown costumes. News of Jamshed’s arrest had been relayed by the police at the M Shed to their colleagues and the royal bodyguards with the Royal party.
The limousine had left the Old Vic and headed along Prince Street towards the scheduled official reception. A decision had to be taken at once. Was this man operating alone? Was he part of a cell? Although the authorities always planned an exit strategy for occasions such as this, they prayed it never became necessary.
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The Royal car glided through the cheering, flag-waving crowds of happy, smiling faces. Any threat of danger to the occupants seemed impossible. A message was relayed to the driver. He turned sharp left into Queen Square and headed for Cabot Circus; he had been joined by an escort of police cars that accompanied him at speed via the M32 and onto the M4.
The Royal couple was tucked up in the Palace by half-past two; shaken but not stirred. They had the horse racing from Kempton and Market Rasen to enjoy on television. Missing lunch with the great and the good was disappointing. One had to hope there would be other days.
DI Zara Wheeler and her colleagues were instructed to await instructions. The crowds had to be notified of the reason for the Queen’s sharp exit, without causing a panic. The situation needed a cool head and a steady hand. While the authorities searched for the right person for the job, the two remaining terrorists, Imran Nawaz, and Salma Begum had been moving closer to the limousine.
When it disappeared without warning into a side turning twenty metres in front of them, they panicked.
“Why did they turn off the route they were supposed to follow?” asked Salma.
“I’ve no idea Salma; something has gone wrong. Look, that’s the lane where we parked the car. Stop here, as if you are resting. I will look to see what happened to the car. These traffic cones weren’t here earlier.”
His ‘pregnant wife’ paused as if to rest. Her ‘overweight husband’ in his fat-suit glanced towards the bay where they had parked the Renault. There was nothing there. Imran knew that their carefully laid plans were unravelling. Had the others been taken too?
“Salma,” he said, “our car has gone; our primary target has driven off to safety. We must hope our brothers are still waiting for the sign to begin their attack. We must give them that sign. Our sacrifice must not be in vain.”
“What do you propose, Imran?” she asked, gripping his arm.
Imran looked at her. Just over her shoulder, he spotted people moving on the other side of the street. The spectators stood and waited patiently, to discover why the limousine had changed direction; these people searched the crowds methodically. They had to be from British secret service.
Imran turned and dragged Salma back into Farr’s Lane.
“Back to the bridge; we will leave our mark on this city.”
Phoenix spotted the sudden movement on the other side of Prince Street.
“Gotcha!” he shouted, “the suspects are in Farr’s Lane running towards the quay. Cut them off before they reach the bridge. I urge extreme caution; they will explode their vests in any crowded spot they find. The others were armed; we must expect that both are carrying weapons. Whatever happens, we must prevent a ‘human shield’ or hostage situation. If we get a headshot at BOTH targets; we take it straight away. These side streets are going to be getting more crowded by the minute. People will soon start realising there’s nothing left to see and disperse.”
Kelly and her crew had got nearer the quayside.
“There are no clowns here, Phoenix; are you sure it was them?”
“You’re looking for a large husband and a heavily pregnant wife. Look closely at their faces. That’s Imran Nawaz and Salma Begum. When I saw the removals van driver at the ferry terminal in Fishguard, I dismissed him as being just that, a fat trucker. I’ve just seen that trucker leaving Prince Street and duck into Farr’s Lane.”
“We’ve split up, Phoenix,” said Jack Mould. “Calvin and I are on the other side of the footbridge. Kelly and Hayden are near the Farr’s Lane exit.”
“Excellent,” said Phoenix, “they’re trapped in Farr’s Lane. Brad and Rusty will follow me in there.”
“Understood,” said Brad.
“Rusty, are you receiving me, over?”
“Loud and clear Phoenix; I’ll just see if I can catch that copper I chatted to earlier. If the police have megaphones available, we can stop the numbers near that end of the lane growing and empty the footbridge.”
“It’s time for damage limitations, Rusty,” said Phoenix. “These two will empty their weapons before detonating their vests if they have time and plenty of targets. We need to leave them with no options; isolate them so they kill themselves and the absolute minimum number of members of the public. Just make sure she uses her head when she gives any message.”
Rusty searched the street for Zara Wheeler. He saw several police officers walking along the road, watching the crowds. There she was; he ran over to her.
“Zara, can you warn these spectators to avoid the quayside and Pero’s Bridge for the next ten minutes at least? Tell them it’s temporarily closed because of congestion.”
Zara blushed and pushed her glasses up her nose. Her colleagues must wonder who the heck this guy was, running up and issuing orders. She turned to a uniformed sergeant.
“Did you hear that? Get that message out at once.”
The sergeant ran back to the nearest vehicle and grabbed a loud-hailer.
As Phoenix and Brad made their way up Farr’s Lane they heard the message. It was repeated twice. Rusty ran up behind them.
“Fat guy and a woman; up there, on the bridge,” he shouted, “they’re on the bridge now.”
In the clamour of people, Imran and Salma had managed to evade Kelly Dexter and Hayden Vincent. Jack and Calvin were on the far side, preventing people from walking onto the bridge and encouraging others still on the footbridge to run towards them. They had their weapons in plain sight.
When Phoenix, Brad, and Rusty joined Kelly and Hayden on the quayside, the only people on the walkway were Imran Nawaz and Salma Begum. They stood on the central section of the so-called Horned Bridge.
They clung together. He looked into her eyes. Her love for him shone back.
Phoenix told everyone to hit the deck and cover their ears.
“It is time,” Imran said.
“Fi amanillah,” replied Salma
They pressed their detonators simultaneously.
CHAPTER 22
The blast was tremendous; the central span of the bridge was severely damaged. Its horns now a twisted and tangled lump of metal. Phoenix raised his head, his ears were still ringing; or was that alarms in the buildings surrounding him?
There were several casualties on either side of the bridge. The vests had contained metal fragments that had been travelling at sixteen hundred feet per second. Of course, there would be casualties. The blessing was that things would have been ten times worse if they hadn’t reduced the numbers in the vicinity dramatically.
Phoenix decided they had to withdraw, to leave the official authorities to manage the aftermath. There was nothing left for them here. Their mission was complete.
“Time to go,” he said. “Kelly, you pick up Jack and Calvin. Guys, you need to take a ten-minute hike along Anchor Road and Hotwell Road. I’ll contact Larcombe to arrange a clean-up crew at once for the bodies in both the dumpster here in the lane and the car on Wapping Road. We can’t be dealing with that now.”
The Olympus agents slipped away. Rusty drove Phoenix and Brad back to Larcombe Manor. Kelly Dexter arrived around thirty minutes later with her crew intact. Calvin Lyons came straight over to the stable block to find Brad. The two men hugged one another. No words were spoken. Travis Knight had been a good friend.
Rusty set off towards the ice-house.
“Where are you off to, mate?” asked Phoenix.
“I want to check the latest news on casualties,” replied Rusty.
“She got to you, that young copper, didn’t she?” said Phoenix. “When you collared her in the street I nearly had kittens. That was Zara Wheeler; the DI who came here checking out the Charity Commissioners beef. She is one dangerous cookie.”
Rusty’s face reddened.
“No, I was just concerned that those two beggars didn’t kill anyone except themselves.”
“Wait for us then, we need to return as much of the kit we took from stores we brought back with us. We have to take the
lift below before we can get cleaned up and have a bite to eat. No doubt the old man wants a word too. But you’re right we should check if Giles knows what damage those two caused on their way to paradise.”
The trip below from the ice-house left them with a more sombre demeanour when they returned to the surface. The normally cheerful Bazza and Thommo were gutted to learn that Travis Knight had been killed. The agent’s kit was checked back in and they moved up to visit Giles and Henry Case in the control centre.
“First,” said Henry, “let me say how sorry we were to learn of Travis’s loss. Overall, the positives outweigh the negatives. Four of the terrorists are dead; one has been arrested by the local police. The car bomb that Travis put out of action would have destroyed half the nearby buildings. The loss of life could have been at least a hundred; with three times as many seriously injured.”
“What fall-out did we suffer from the IED’s on the bridge?” Rusty was concerned, and it showed.
“Numbers are still unconfirmed,” said Giles, “but we believe it to be six dead, around forty injured, seven of those seriously. The vast majority came from commercial properties along the quayside. There wasn’t time to give any warning to evacuate. Your message asking people to keep away from Pero’s Bridge saved dozens, Rusty.”
“Erebus is keen to talk with you before you get stuck into something else, Phoenix,” said Henry Case. “In fact, he’s called a full meeting for us at six tonight. He wants to see you before that.”
Colin nodded. He had a good idea of what that concerned. He hoped to see Athena before he talked with the old man. Days such as today made you realise just how lucky you are if you have someone to come home to after the job they had just suffered.
Athena waited for Phoenix in the foyer.
“Darling, you’re safe; thank God,” she said.
“It wasn’t a picnic,” replied Colin. “I’m glad I saw you before I met the old man.”
“I’ll be there too; it’s just the three of us,” Athena said.
Erebus came downstairs from his apartments and they followed him into the lounge. He invited them to sit in the chairs on either side of the elegant fireplace. He brought them each a drink and stood in front of the fire with a large gin and tonic.