by Kim Hughes
After a pause, Rachel asked, ‘How old is Ruby now?’
For fuck’s sake, he thought. Then, calmly: ‘Thirteen.’
‘Difficult age.’
‘Yes. Mum—’
‘Are we going home now?’
‘Look, I have some bad news. Barbara and Henry. Your mother and father.’
‘I know that,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not doolally yet.’
‘I’m afraid Grandad, your dad, has died.’ He stumbled for a moment, the reality hitting home once more. ‘I… it was a heart attack. It was very quick, Mum.’
Her face collapsed into a terrible mask of grief and he stood to try and give her a hug, but she pushed him away. Her face quickly regained its composure. ‘How? How did he die?’
‘Natural causes. Heart attack,’ he repeated.
‘Can we go home now?’
‘No, Mum.’
‘But surely it’s mine now.’
‘What is?’
‘Dunston Hall?’
‘No, Mum. Your mother is still around. It is your dad who’s gone.’
‘When is the funeral?’ Rachel asked.
‘I don’t know yet. I’m waiting to hear from the undertaker.’
‘I’ll need a new outfit.’
‘We’ll sort all that.’
‘How old is Ruby now?’
‘A hundred and three.’
Alarm flashed across Rachel’s face. ‘What?’
He felt a stab of guilt at his flippancy. It wasn’t his mother’s fault. None of it was. He shouldn’t take his frustration out on her. ‘She’s thirteen.’
‘A difficult age.’
‘Look, are you going to be all right? After hearing about Dad? I’ll tell one of the companions to come and sit with you, eh?’
‘That would be nice. Or Bill, when he’s done his…’ Her brow furrowed in thought, the memory just out of reach. He wondered how long the news would manage to cling on to the cliff face of sentience before falling away into the abyss.
‘Football sweep,’ he said eventually.
‘Yes. That was it. A sweep. Who was playing again?’
When he didn’t answer she looked into his face. ‘Are you all right? You’ve gone quite pale.’
Riley’s mouth was suddenly Sahara dry. He reached over and took a sip of her water before he replied. ‘I’m okay. I’ve got to go.’
‘Why?’
Because I know where the bomb is.
‘Lots to sort out, Mum. I’ll be back soon, promise.’
And I know when it’s going to go off.
* * *
‘Have you gone mad, Dom?’ said Alex, the Met’s EXPO.
‘There’s a precedent.’
Riley was hammering back down the M1 in his grandparents’ BMW, ignoring the pain in his spine. He doubted the old, but immaculately maintained, crate had hit such speeds in its lifetime. It didn’t seem to mind. The engine was humming sweetly.
‘What precedent?’
‘Manchester United’s game against Bournemouth. Last day of the 2015–2016 season. Game called off.’
‘That was some dork who left a packet in the bog after a training exercise,’ said Stock.
‘They didn’t know that when they abandoned the game.’
‘You know they’ll probably sue the Met for lost revenue if you’re wrong.’
‘I’m not.’ There was a silence at the other end for a full minute. ‘Alex?’
‘I can’t do it. I haven’t got the authority.’ Riley knew that. This was going to go past the commissioner all the way to the mayor.
‘You can back me up.’ He pressed on the horn and flashed his lights to get a cruising Range Rover out of the fast lane. ‘Look, SO15 will have filmed the scene at the house when Moe died. Play it back. Listen carefully to what Moe says.’
‘Are you sure this isn’t wishful thinking?’
Possibly, he thought, but this was a time for certainty, not vacillation. But he said: ‘I’m going to call my contact at Five.’
‘Get you. Who’s got the big swinging bollocks now?’ Alex sighed, a difficult decision made. ‘I’ll make the calls. You better be right.’
‘Thank you.’ Riley punched the dashboard and then dialled Muraski. He didn’t waste time with pleasantries. ‘The bomb is at the Emirates stadium. It’s due to go off sometime after kick-off I would guess. That’s 8pm tonight.’
‘Christ, Riley. You sure?’
‘No, but if I’m right… I think it seats sixty thousand or more.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It might be seventy,’ he corrected.
Muraski snapped back at him. ‘Not that, you idiot. About the bomb.’
‘Moe. He wasn’t saying gonner. He was saying Gooner or Gunner. Think about it. Moe was trying to tell us there is a bomb at the match. It’s why Safi put his hand over the kid’s mouth. I said it wasn’t personal, but I was wrong. Safi would know we used to josh about Arsenal and Liverpool. What better target?’
‘That’s pretty thin stuff, Riley. It’s a bit of a WAG?’
‘WAG?’
‘Yeah, the army doesn’t have a monopoly on acronyms, you know. What we in Five call a Wild-Arsed Guess.’ He knew she was rehearsing in her head how this would play with her bosses. ‘And the cost…’
‘Jesus, does everyone think about the money first?’ Bloody capitalists, he thought. ‘Hold on.’
‘What?’
‘Just hold on. Think. This was a you-scratch-my-back, I’ll-scratch-yours op, wasn’t it? WAG or not, just listen. A marriage of convenience – I’ll make the bombs, you do some targets of mine, then I’ll hit one for you. This one does both parties.’
‘I thought you said it was personal.’
‘The teams are. Me and Moe. But who else likes football these days? Like to own the odd club or two? Take their mates along to an executive box and show off their investment?’
‘Rich cunts?’ she offered.
‘Rich Russian cunts, maybe?’ he countered.
‘Fuck. Is Arsenal Russian-owned?’
‘I haven’t a clue,’ he lied. It was mostly in American hands, but he had her attention now. ‘That doesn’t matter – they don’t have to own the whole shooting match, having a swanky box at one of the big clubs is enough of a status symbol for most oligarchs. I suggest you get Counter Terrorism and your bods to start checking what Russian nationals have season tickets and get that ground cleared. Because I reckon there is a bomb under one or more of their seats.’ He looked at the dash clock. ‘And you’ve got about two hours till it starts ticking.’
* * *
‘This is Billy Reeves with Radio London traffic. There is chaos in North London following the postponement of tonight’s fixture between Arsenal and Liverpool due to an unspecified security incident. Highbury & Islington tube and mainline are currently closed and trains are not stopping at Arsenal and Holloway Road tubes because of overcrowding. Roads around Drayton Park are closed as is normal on match days. As you’d expect, traffic is very heavy on the Holloway Road between the Highbury & Islington roundabout and the Nag’s Head in both directions. Police are advising ticket holders not to travel but to contact the club regarding refunds or replacements. Elsewhere, the North Circular is heavy at the Hangar Lane gyratory system in all directions due to roadworks. There is a restricted service on the Waterloo & City line and there is only one Woolwich Ferry running this evening. More in an hour.’
‘You’re listening to the Robert Elms show on Radio London…’
FORTY-FIVE
Riley looked through the glass curtain wall and out over the brightly lit stadium. Although there were no fans, the various stands were full of activity as police, trained ground staff, Royal Engineers and accompanying sniffer dogs examined each tier. It was 7.10, fifty minutes to kick-off. Riley was standing with Alex Stock and Liz McCracken, the events and security manager for the stadium. McCracken was a no-nonsense former policewoman in her early forties, bottle-blonde hair cut in
to a bob, dressed in a dark grey trouser suit and flat heels. They were in one of the glassed-in hospitality areas, coffees and plans of the stadium laid out on the table before them.
‘You know, I hope you are wrong about this,’ said Liz McCracken. ‘It’s a terrible waste of a good match… bookies are up in arms. Fans have wrecked a couple of pubs. Players are pissed off, of course.’
Tell them to go buy another Porsche, cheer themselves up.
Nick would never have made a diplomat.
Riley reached out and took his coffee. He had been forced to abandon the BMW at Archway and, ignoring his aching back, he had sprinted down the Holloway Road. He still hadn’t quite caught his breath. His confidence in his prediction had wavered with every metre of his run. Maybe he had just cost everyone a lot of time, effort and cash for nothing. A wild goose chase. Better safe than very sorry indeed.
That might be true, but few people would think that if they came up empty-handed. And he knew this one was on him and nobody else.
‘I’m not wrong,’ he said with as much confidence as he could muster.
Liz and Stock exchanged glances and a not very professional look went between them. Maybe they knew each other. EXPOs often did tours of PTs – Potential Targets – such as football grounds to offer advice. Perhaps they got friendly then. Maybe they were just confirming what the rest of the world was probably thinking: Riley has really lost it this time.
McCracken’s radio let out a beep. ‘Liz McCracken.’
‘Is Riley with you?’ It was Kate Muraski. She was in the main Arsenal office with the admin people. He knew she thought she should be out kicking arses at the Met, pushing them to find out who shanked her pal. If he was wrong about this, she’d probably carve Riley up herself for wasting her time.
‘Yes.’
‘Tell him we have a ten-seater VIP box on the Club Level bought in the name of Vasily Kutsik. The man who owns the house next to his grandparents.’
‘I got that,’ said Riley. ‘That can’t be a fucking coincidence.’
‘Which box?’ Liz asked.
‘Wembley ’98,’ replied Muraski.
‘Yeah, I know it,’ said Liz. ‘One floor below us.’
‘Thanks, Kate. Can you access any CCTV footage of that area?’ asked Riley.
‘Not from here.’
‘I can sort that,’ Liz offered.
‘Thanks. And tell everyone else to clear that floor.’ He turned to Stock. ‘I think we’re up.’
* * *
The Wembley ’98 box celebrated the FA Cup win of Arsenal over Newcastle United at the original Wembley Stadium. Inside, it was decorated with giant blow-ups of members of that victorious team, including goal scorers Marc Overmars and Nicolas Anelka, as well as images of the iconic twin towers of Wembley, which had been demolished in 2003.
Stock and Riley could see none of this. They were looking at an anonymous set of wooden double doors with the name of the box on the left-hand one. Stock’s equipment was laid out on the floor around them. His number two, a police warrant officer called Chris Hilton, was checking the robot over, just in case it was needed.
‘You sure you want to do this?’ Stock asked Riley.
‘Of course I don’t,’ he said, with some certainty. Right then he wanted to get into that abandoned BMW, drive to Cornwall and be with Ruby, talking about his grandfather. He knew, though, that this had to be his shout. ‘But this is aimed at me. So, I’m more likely to spot any message Safi left me from the grave.’
‘Yeah, mate, and I’m worried about you popping over to collect it personally. You going to suit up?’
‘No.’
‘It saved your life last time,’ Stock reminded him.
‘This isn’t the same environment, is it? Would you wear it?’ Riley asked.
Stock hesitated, apparently not wanting to admit Riley was making a decent judgement call. ‘No, I suppose not.’
As in Afghan, it wasn’t worth the encumbrance, albeit for different reasons. If a bomb went off in what was effectively a concrete box, no suit on earth would protect you. And wearing one would just make the process of trying to render any device safe much more difficult.
Riley checked his phone. Several missed calls from earlier, but he ignored them. There was no signal inside the Emirates anyway. It meant the Electronic Counter Measures operator didn’t have to worry about activation by mobile phone, but Hilton had put the gamut of counter-measures in place anyway, over the full bandwith available.
Riley handed his phone over to Stock and took a radio and headset in return. He put the headphones on and turned on the microphone and camera. Hilton would tape the feed from the camera, so they had a record of what Riley had seen and done. ‘Ok, I’ll start with the door. You and Chris fuck off, eh?’
The ICP had been set up in one of the VIP dining rooms, a safe distance from any explosion, unless it was a real monster.
‘Break a leg,’ said Stock.
‘At the very least,’ said Riley.
When he was alone, he stared at the door for a few seconds. It was now 7.25. Maybe the timer had started. Maybe it was designed to initiate at 8pm, kick-off. One thing was for sure: whatever was beyond that door wouldn’t have a large red digital clock clicking down to detonation.
He examined the frame for anything unusual – a thin piece of wire stretched across it, an electric eye sending out a beam that would cause the device to blow when broken. But he doubted the bomb-planters had had time to set up anything so complicated or liable to accidental deployment by a staff member. The idea was to get the victims inside the box, not stop them entering. Still, he didn’t skimp on his visual inspection, switching his full attention to the silver handle, shining a torch beam over it, looking for tell-tale scratches.
Then Riley walked up and opened the door next to Wembley ’98, crossed the hospitality area of the box, slid back the glass and stepped into the open air, where the seats for viewing the match were located. The hand search was still underway, but he ignored it. He leaned over the low glass partition that acted as a dividing wall between the VIP areas and, using a monocular, examined the interior of Wembley ’98 as best he could.
Riley took a second to compose himself. Normally he could slip into ATO mode, the hyper-vigilant, focused state you needed to stay alive. He was having trouble erasing the clamour in his brain from the past few days, though. Nottingham, Spike, the near-miss with Ruby, the bomber in Scotland, the grim deaths of Moe and Safi, losing his grandfather. The images and sounds refused to leave him, like reluctant party guests in the early hours. And of course, Nick would think it was high time he made an appearance.
Come on, Dom. One last push. What did you always say? It isn’t the bomb that kills you, it’s complacency.
I’m not complacent.
You’re not focused, either. Store the grief. You won’t lose it. You need to be in the moment and nowhere else.
Riley took a deep breath and felt the cacophony in his skull diminish. A familiar stillness flooded through him. Time to go to work.
He eased himself over the divider and examined the concrete floor for any signs of wire or a mat or carpet that might hide a pressure pad. Nothing. Using his torch, monocular and fingers, he examined every inch of the sliding partition that would give him access to the indoor hospitality area, but there was nothing. He gently pushed one of the panes back, knelt down and probed at the carpet with a knife. No nasty surprises waited there. He stood and stepped inside. Again, he took his time to take in every surface, interrogating the room, demanding it give up its secrets. It was now nearly 7.45. He was beginning to think the room had no secrets to give up.
He turned on the radio. ‘Alex?’
‘Here.’
‘Drawing a blank here. Nothing untoward.’
‘Good,’ said Stock.
‘Any other thoughts?’
‘Not yet. Nothing from the other search teams either.’ There was a pause. ‘Fifteen minutes to kick-off. The most li
kely deployment time if there is a bomb.’
‘Roger that.’
Riley imagined what would happen if the device detonated at eight on the dot. The shock wave would kill him instantly, probably blasting what was left of him through the glass. The velocity would be such that pieces of him would probably be scattered on to the pitch. He knew Arsenal fans who would give their left nut to be scattered on…
Unless it’s an EFP. Thought of that? Like someone used in Leicester. Maybe the same people, playing both ends against the middle. You being the piggy.
Riley imagined Nick sitting on a rock in the desert, one leg outstretched, boot off, wriggling his toes, the SA80 within easy reach. Maybe risking lifting his helmet off to wipe away the sweat. A shake of his head, releasing a cloud of dust. That wide grin, showing the incisor he chipped opening a beer bottle with his teeth.
You aren’t thinking outside this particular box, pal.
Outside the box. Riley looked at the ceiling. What if you used an Explosively Formed Projectile to make sure the full force of the blast came downwards? Inside the concrete shell it would be like sitting in an erupting volcano: limbs would fly, flesh would melt. But when? If you were the bomb-maker, when would you set this monster to deploy? With the first kick of the ball? Eight o’clock on the nose, perhaps. It was as good a time as any to choose.
‘Alex. Ask Kate or Liz to check who owns the box above this one.’
‘Above?’
‘Yes. Directly above.’
‘Shit. You thinking…?’
‘Just ask her.’
‘Twelve minutes to kick-off. Just saying.’
‘Can you ask her?’
The answer came in just over a minute. ‘Christ, that put a rocket up Kate’s arse. She says it’s a corporate box.’
‘In the name of?’
‘Something called Halo Trading.’
FORTY-SIX
Stock lit his cigarette and offered Riley the pack. He shook his head. ‘Those things’ll kill you.’