by Tim Ayliffe
Ronnie held up his shirt again.
‘Enough of that, thanks, mate,’ Bailey said with a wink.
Ronnie put one foot onto the step of the bus. ‘Mind if I get on here, Ayesha?’
She looked at Bailey like Ronnie must be joking.
‘I think that’s a yes, mate,’ Bailey said.
Ronnie still had half a cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth and Bailey could see that he was biting down hard on the stub. He might be a seasoned professional, but Ronnie was nervous.
‘Ayesha and I were just talking here about how it’s not too late for this to have a happy ending.’
Ronnie peered over the railing so that he could get a look at the bomb for himself. ‘I see.’
Ayesha’s eyes were bouncing from Bailey to Ronnie, and back to the bomb at her feet.
‘How are you, Ayesha?’ Ronnie’s thick southern accent made him sound like he was greeting someone he’d known for years.
Ayesha was watching him without saying a word.
‘Ayesha, are you okay?’ Ronnie tried again.
‘I guess,’ she said. ‘Considering.’
‘What say you, Ayesha?’ Bailey said. ‘Are we ready to go?’
Ayesha let out a long sigh, closing her eyes. When she opened them, they were filled with tears that overflowed down her cheeks. She started sobbing, her chin falling into her chest.
‘It’s okay.’
Bailey wanted to put an arm around her to comfort her, let her know that she was still just a kid, that kids made stupid mistakes and that they came back from them. Got second chances. But he couldn’t put his arm around her because his fingers were still locked on her hands and the button that was connected to the bomb.
Eventually, she looked up at Bailey. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Let’s get you off this bus.’ Bailey turned to the big Oklahoman. ‘Ronnie?’
‘Yes, bubba?’
‘I’m going to need your help.’
‘How exactly are you planning on doing this?’
‘Don’t worry about that part. Just head off back there and find me a roll of gaffer tape.’
Ronnie hesitated, like he was workshopping Bailey’s plan in his mind. ‘Okay, bubba.’ He stepped off the bus and walked back towards the police cordon with his hands in the air.
‘Ayesha, I need you to do exactly what I say, okay?’ Bailey was speaking in a gentle tone that he’d usually reserved for his daughter. ‘You need to trust me.’
‘Okay.’
Bailey had always believed that it was almost impossible for people to lie with their eyes. Right now, Ayesha’s teary eyes were telling him that she didn’t want to die.
‘I need to get a look at the trigger beneath your fingers.’
She nodded.
‘My guess is that the bomb’s live, and that the second the button’s released, it goes bang, right?’
Ayesha nodded again. This time her eyes were saying she was sorry.
She slid her right hand slightly over so that Bailey could see that her index finger was holding down a black button, about half as wide as a one-pound coin.
‘I need to get my finger onto that button so that I can keep it down when you release it.’
‘Okay.’ Ayesha’s voice was shaky.
Their hands had been clasped together for so long that they were greased with sweat.
Bailey gently slid his good thumb over the top of Ayesha’s fingers, before slipping it down and onto the button.
‘There.’ Bailey felt his finger hit the metal. ‘Now I need you to, gently and slowly, remove your finger so that I can take over the pressure.’
She did as she was told and within seconds she was sitting beside Bailey with two free hands.
‘Time for you to go.’
Bailey’s thumb was holding down the button with such force that his hand was shaking. He had no idea how much pressure was required and he wasn’t taking any chances.
Ayesha stood up, carefully climbing over the backpack and past Bailey’s knees.
She stopped at the door, turning around. ‘It should be me staying here.’
‘This is the only way,’ Bailey said, knowing it was the truth. ‘I’m not sure I would have been as trusting of you as you were of me.’
Ayesha held his gaze for a few more seconds, like she had suddenly realised the person that she had almost become, before stepping off the bus and onto the road.
‘Ayesha!’ Bailey called after her.
She stopped next to the open door of the bus. ‘Yeah?’
‘You’re going to need to lose the jacket to show the cops that the bomb is still here with me. And put your hands in the air. Walk slowly.’
‘Mr Bailey,’ Ayesha called back to him, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all part of growing up.’
Ayesha left her jacket on the step of the bus. She was still a child, eighteen years old, idealistic. Her misguided rebellion had materialised into a homemade bomb that was sitting at Bailey’s feet, with his good thumb trembling on the trigger.
Through the bus window, Bailey could see Ronnie talking with Tony Dorset from MI5. They looked like they were having an argument. The fact that Ronnie made it back to the bus soon after with a roll of silver gaffer tape in his hand meant that the American had won.
‘What did he want?’
‘The stupid prick had all these other ideas he wanted to go over with his team before deciding which option was the best.’ Ronnie was shaking his head. ‘He was probably about to bring out a fucking whiteboard.’
‘And?’
‘You want the summary?’
Bailey looked down at his hand. ‘That’d probably be best.’
‘I told him there was a bomb in your lap and you’d appreciate a quick decision.’ Ronnie held up the tape and rested a knee on the seat beside Bailey. ‘And here we are.’
Bailey slid his thumb to his right so that Ronnie could see the size of the button they needed to lock down with the tape.
‘So, I fix the tape to the edge of the button and you reckon that’s going to hold it down?’
Ronnie used his shirt to wipe away Bailey’s sweat from the metal and also from Bailey’s skin.
‘You’re not going to do anything, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘Just tear me off a few strips, stick them to the railing and I’ll do the rest.’
‘I’m staying.’
‘Bullshit, you are.’ Bailey raised his voice. ‘There’s no point both of us dying if this thing goes tits-up.’
‘Yeah, but it won’t go wrong if I’m here with you.’
‘It’s not up for discussion. Tear the tape and get the fuck off the bus.’
‘Sorry, bubba,’ Ronnie said. ‘We almost lost one good pal this week. He’s probably watching this on television from his hospital bed. I promised him I’d look out for you. I’m not going anywhere.’
The mention of Gerald sent needles through Bailey’s spine.
Ronnie was right, the best chance that Bailey had of making it off the bus alive was with Ronnie’s help. Bailey didn’t want to die. He had a wedding to go to. A daughter to walk down the aisle. Gerald. Miranda. Dexter. They were probably all watching. The sound of the helicopter overhead confirmed it.
‘You’re a stubborn bastard, you know that?’ Bailey said.
‘Coming from you?’
‘Let’s just get this done.’
Ronnie started tearing off strips of tape, sticking them to the metal railing in front of the seat, until he had all the tape that he needed. One by one, he fastened the strips of gaffer tape to the edge of the button, each strip covering more of the trigger.
‘I reckon that’s enough.’
‘Wait.’
Ronnie made a few more strips, fixing each one, carefully, on the button. With Bailey’s thumb taking up half the space, the tape could only catch a few millimetres of plastic.
‘Not enough pressure and this thing goes boom.’
‘Okay.’
Ron
nie was on his knees, pressing the corners of the tape, testing its strength.
‘This is where we hold hands and pray.’
‘That’s how this mess began,’ Bailey said, dryly. ‘Here goes.’
He hesitated, knowing that there was no coming back if they’d got this wrong. A few more seconds. One more breath.
Bailey let go.
‘Shit.’ He sat back in his seat, his hand still shaking and aching from the pressure.
Ronnie grabbed the roll of tape and wrapped it around and around the remote so that there was no danger of the button moving.
‘What do we do with that?’ Bailey said, stepping over the backpack.
‘Leave it here.’
‘Good for me. Let’s get the hell off this bus.’
The two men stepped onto the road and started walking, hands in the air, towards the police and ambulances further along London Bridge.
Behind the police cordon, crowds of people were lining the Thames on either side of the bridge, like they were waiting for the royal barge at the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.
‘Shirts up, fellas!’ a cop called out.
There were so many guns pointed at them that Bailey didn’t even try to count them.
‘Better do what they say,’ Ronnie said.
‘You think?’ Bailey lifted his shirt, offering a view of his pudgy middle. ‘I hope they don’t get this on camera.’
CHAPTER 48
A guy holding a sign that read ‘British bombs for hire’ was arguing with a policeman on the steps of Thames House when the four-wheel drive carrying Bailey and Ronnie skidded to a stop beside the footpath out front.
‘Here we are, chaps.’
Tony Dorset had been riding in the front seat and he’d barely said a word to the two men in the back during the short drive from London Bridge to Lambeth.
Bailey had spent the car-ride staring out the window, waiting for his heart rate to normalise and for the fog of fear to lift. Like the rest of London, it would take time.
Dorset climbed out of the car first and then opened the back door.
‘Let’s go, gentlemen.’
Bailey didn’t want to get out of the car. He wanted to stay in the back seat and tell the driver to take him to Heathrow so that he could head to Sydney to see his daughter. See Gerald. Break bread with Dexter. After his near-death experience, the precious things in his life were flashing in his head like the Sydney Harbour Bridge on New Year’s Eve. But Bailey knew that he wasn’t going anywhere. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon. He was stuck in London for as long as they wanted him there.
In a few minutes time he would be taken into a room where he’d be hit with a million questions by British spooks about what had just gone down on London Bridge and anything he could tell them about Mustafa al-Baghdadi.
‘I’ll try to keep this as brief as possible,’ Dorset said.
A reassurance that reminded Bailey of the day his dentist told him that root canal was routine treatment. Five hours later, he had been dribbling soup down his chin with a gaping hole in his mouth and five more appointments in his calendar.
‘Sure you will.’
‘Come on, bubba.’ Ronnie nudged Bailey with his elbow. ‘I won’t let this get out of hand.’
Bailey and Ronnie followed Dorset across the pavement and up the steps towards the entrance. The argument between the cop and the guy holding the one-man protest looked like it was getting heated. By the time they made it to the top of the steps under the big grey arch, they could hear the two men going for it.
‘You’re telling me I need to make a reservation to protest a week in advance?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you.’ The policeman was clearly losing his patience. ‘It’s the law!’
‘Not my law.’
‘I’ve explained the rules. If you don’t leave now, I’ll arrest you.’
Bailey felt sorry for the guy with the sign. What happened to free speech? Since when was staging a protest like booking a table in a restaurant?
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
The protester sat down on the cold stone steps, defiantly, his legs partially blocking the door.
‘Move,’ Dorset said.
The bloke didn’t move an inch. ‘You can piss off too.’
‘I don’t have time for this shit.’ Dorset turned to the policeman. ‘Get rid of him.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to do, sir.’
Dorset stepped over the protester’s legs, almost tripping as he pushed open the door, and waved his hand for Bailey and Ronnie to do the same.
‘Let’s go.’
‘Got to stand up for what you believe,’ Bailey said to the protester as he stepped over his legs. ‘Good on you, mate.’
‘Indeed.’ The man smiled, folding his arms.
Bailey and Ronnie followed Dorset through the front door to the security desk, where a woman in uniform was waiting for them. There was also a screening machine that reminded Bailey about the bomb in Ayesha’s backpack. The bomb disposal unit had been preparing to conduct a controlled explosion just as they were leaving London Bridge. Bailey thought he would have heard a loud bang by now, considering they were only a mile away.
‘Arms up, please.’
Ronnie offered himself for a pat-down first, his big arms stretching wide. He was so tall that the woman searching him looked like she was tugging on a clothes line.
‘Okay, you’re done.’
The body-scanner didn’t make a sound when Ronnie walked through.
Bailey’s turn.
‘Arms up, please.’
‘Easy, love.’ He touched the woman’s hand as she started running her fingers under his jacket. ‘I’ve got a little burn on my back, be gentle.’
She gave him a vacant stare and her hand brushed the bandage, sending a stinging pain up his spine. She made no attempt to be gentle. Maybe she was worried about being thorough in front of the boss.
Dorset noticed Bailey squirm. ‘We’ll get that looked at in a bit.’
They followed Dorset into an elevator and then out again on a different floor. Bailey hadn’t bothered to watch the numbers tick over. He was feeling lightheaded from the pain that had returned with a vengeance in his back.
Dorset led them down a wide corridor with green carpet and portraits of people Bailey didn’t recognise, and into a large boardroom. There must have been a dozen people sitting around a table filled with documents, maps, photographs and newspaper clippings. There was a whiteboard at the other end of the room with Mustafa al-Baghdadi’s name written on it. Arrows linking him to other names. The Haneef girls and people that Bailey had never heard of before. Bailey’s name was up there too, circled in red.
A short, stocky woman with a neat hairdo and glasses was standing by the window. By the look on her face, she was expecting them.
‘Ronnie Johnson.’
She made her way around the large table with a big smile on her face, her hand outstretched for the big Oklahoman.
‘Long time, Ann.’
The room went silent and the heads around the table all turned towards the door, where Ronnie and Ann were now shaking hands.
‘Ann Pritchard,’ Ronnie said, ‘meet John Bailey.’
Pritchard looked like she’d been in the spy game even longer than Ronnie. Her extra chin and rounding middle suggested that these days she did most of her spying from behind a desk. Ronnie respected her, that much was clear. Bailey could sense the history in their two-armed greeting.
‘Pleasure to meet you, Mr Bailey.’ Pritchard offered her hand to Bailey and he shook it. ‘Terrible thing you’ve just been through.’
‘Thanks,’ Bailey said. ‘I’ve had better London commutes.’
Bailey’s joke sank without a trace and Pritchard was clapping her hands, commanding the attention of the room. ‘Okay, everyone. Out! Get some caffeine, call your husbands, wives, mistresses . . . whatever. Nobody goes home tonight. Back here in ten.’
&
nbsp; She waited for everyone to clear out before she started talking again.
‘I saw your speech at Chatham House last week. Damn tragedy what happened outside. I enjoyed the talk though. Insightful.’
‘Thanks.’
Bailey’s speech at St James’s Square felt like it had happened last year, not last week. And he could have done without the trip down memory lane.
‘Gentlemen, do we need anything?’ Pritchard asked. ‘Water? Tea? Coffee?’
‘Let’s just cut to it,’ Ronnie said. ‘It’s been a hell of a few days.’
‘Understood,’ Pritchard said. ‘Tony, let’s get some water in here.’
Dorset looked like he was about to say something but he decided against it and walked out the door.
‘Gentlemen, please sit.’
Bailey grabbed a seat facing the window. The view was something else. The red bridge stretching across the Thames, Lambeth Palace, and further along, the big wheel of the London Eye and the tip of the Shard. London Bridge was a bend and a half away, out of view. Not out of mind.
Pritchard obviously wasn’t one for small talk because they sat in silence while they waited for Dorset to return. It didn’t take long. He came back with four bottles of water, handing one first to his boss, then to the men in the room, before he sat down smack in the middle of Bailey’s view of the big wheel.
Cracking the plastic cap, Bailey took a long pull of his water, emptying half the bottle. He was dehydrated from sweating on the bus and the two long plane rides to London.
He sat forward so that his back wouldn’t touch the leather chair. He was tired but the pain was keeping him alert. The Brits would have a long list of questions. Bailey was determined to go first.
‘What did you do with Ayesha?’
‘She’s in custody, being questioned,’ Pritchard said.
‘Have you spoken to her?’ Bailey was pointing his finger at Pritchard. ‘Down at the bridge, did you speak to her?’
‘No.’
‘Then who’s questioning her?’
‘What is this?’ Dorset said. ‘The girl was about to –’
Pritchard raised her hand and Dorset stopped talking. ‘Ayesha Haneef has a lot of explaining to do. We’ve got her at a secure location.’
‘Remember, she’s just a kid.’