State of Fear

by Tim Ayliffe

  This must have been the team that Ronnie had assembled when they’d arrived in London. Bailey hadn’t even known that they were there, which was probably the idea.

  The photograph of Dexter was up on the monitors on the table.

  ‘What’re we looking at?’ Bailey said.

  ‘This.’ The woman was pointing at the window blind behind Dexter. ‘We think we’ve found something. Watch this.’

  She clicked the mouse a few times so that she could zoom in on the background. There was a small gap in the blind behind Dexter and, as she enlarged and enhanced the image, they could see outside onto the street.

  All Bailey could see was a wall of red. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A bus,’ the woman said.

  ‘What does it tell us?’ Bailey said.

  ‘It’s not the bus we’re interested in.’ She opened another image that showed the bus window, zooming in again. It was reflecting what looked like a house, or a shop, on the corner of the street opposite. There were objects stacked on the footpath that looked like white goods – washing machines, dishwashers – and a few people walking by.

  Bailey couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘All this from the reflection in the window?’

  ‘One thing I can tell you about the people holding Sharon Dexter is that they’ve got a bloody good camera,’ she said. ‘High-res. We’ve ripped a lot of detail.’

  ‘I think I’ve found something.’

  Bailey had forgotten about the guy sitting at the other side of the table, hidden behind his computer monitor.

  ‘What is it, Raj?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘Almost, almost.’ He was talking to himself. ‘C’mon, baby, c’mon. Got it!’

  They squeezed around the table so that they could all peer over Raj’s shoulder.

  He had two windows open on his screen. On the left, he had a program that looked like Google Earth and on the right, the grainy image of the house reflecting in the bus window. He adjusted the grainy image so that it was transparent, then dragged it across the screen and rested it on top of the other picture. A few more clicks and he was done.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Bailey said.

  ‘And look there.’ The woman was pointing at the white sign with black and red writing plastered to the brick wall of the house, or shop, on the corner.

  First Avenue. W10.

  ‘Great work, Raj,’ she said.

  ‘Where is it?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘The bus was travelling along Harrow Road.’ Raj navigated the screen, giving them a view of the street where the bus must have been driving by. ‘If I spin the aspect so that we’re looking back at the house, we can be almost certain that the photograph was taken on the first floor of this building.’

  Bailey was mesmerised by what had just happened. From a small crack in a window blind, they’d used the reflection in the window of a bus to identify the house where Dexter was sitting in a room tied to a chair.

  ‘Harrow Road. West London. What are we talking . . . Ladbroke Grove? Kensal Town?’ Bailey used to live around the corner at Maida Vale.

  ‘Kensal Town.’

  ‘What’re we waiting for?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Kim,’ Ronnie addressed the woman, taking control again. ‘How many people can we mobilise?’

  ‘The two of us and you makes three,’ she said. ‘At three in the morning, that’s it. We’ll tap the local CCTV cameras so we’ll have eyes on the area when we’re in the van. But as for the numbers . . . what about the Brits?’

  Ronnie looked over at Bailey, who’d gone quiet. He was staring at the image of Dexter with the gag in her mouth. ‘We’ll get her back, bubba.’

  ‘Ronnie, the Brits?’ Kim asked again.

  ‘I’ll call Pritchard when we’re on the way. I don’t want them racing in and shooting up the place.’

  ‘Mustafa al-Baghdadi’s a pretty big target, shouldn’t we –’

  ‘Think I don’t know that?’ Ronnie cut her off. ‘Smaller the team, the better. We need to presume there are bombs in that house. We don’t know what else. And believe me . . . I want Mustafa more than anyone. He’s the reason I’m not baiting my hook at my favourite fishing spot in Sydney. So don’t tell me things I already know.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Kim held up her hands. ‘Your way, then.’

  Raj lifted a large duffel bag onto the bed, unzipping it. Inside was a stash of weapons – pistols, rifles, boxes of ammunition and kevlar vests. After double-checking the contents, he tossed in two laptops, zipped up the bag and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Good to go.’

  ‘I’m coming with you,’ Bailey said to Ronnie.

  ‘That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘I’m not giving you a choice.’ Bailey knew that everyone – the Americans, the Brits – were all pumped up about the prospect of arresting, or killing, Mustafa al-Baghdadi. The only thing that mattered to Bailey was the woman in the chair. ‘Sharon’s in that room because of me. I’m coming.’

  Kim was shaking her head. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

  Ronnie was leading the mission. His call. ‘Okay, bubba, but you’re staying in the van.’

  CHAPTER 53

  It was just after 4 am and there was hardly anything on the road.

  Bailey was sitting in the front passenger seat, watching the night, trying not to think about the absurdity of a guy like him riding in a van with a group of CIA agents armed to the teeth.

  Within minutes they were passing Buckingham Palace, cutting through Green Park and on to Paddington, where they hit Harrow Road just after Maida Vale.

  Streets that would soon be bustling with commuter traffic were virtually empty, apart from the garbage collectors and delivery vans trying to get a jump on the day.

  Bailey could have named a dozen pubs within walking distance of the house where Dexter was possibly being held. These streets were his old stomping ground when he was The Journal’s Europe correspondent. The place where he used to stumble home. Where he broke down.

  They parked the van outside a garage in a side street, about three hundred metres from the house. Close enough to move in, but not so close that they might be seen.

  The trip from Millbank had taken them less than twenty minutes.

  Inside the van looked like the control room at a TV station. Walls of monitors, computers and swivel chairs with headphones hanging off the back. Raj was busily tapping away on his keyboard, trying to get the CCTV cameras up, while Kim and Ronnie plotted their next move.

  ‘We go on foot from here.’ Ronnie unzipped the bag and started handing out equipment. ‘Rifles and pistols. Vests on.’

  Bailey was watching them prepare in silence. He doubted that any of them had managed to get any sleep for almost twenty-four hours. It didn’t show. Maybe it was the pills that he’d watched Kim dole out back at the hotel. Dexedrine, most likely. Something to turn up the senses and eliminate the threat of tiredness.

  Ronnie checked the magazine in his Glock, tucking it into a holster on his waist. ‘Any joy with the cameras, Raj?’

  ‘Almost.’ Seconds later, four small squares showing street scenes appeared on the screen in front of Raj. ‘Here we go.’

  Ronnie put a hand on Raj’s shoulder, leaning in to get a better look. ‘What am I seeing here?’

  ‘These are the nearest cameras to the house on the corner of First Avenue. And that one . . .’ Raj’s finger touched one of the squares. ‘That’s the closest. It shows the back of the house. There’s some kind of garage and rear access behind that wall.’

  ‘That’s our way in.’

  Ronnie pulled a small box out of the bag and opened it, handing tiny pods to the other two. They followed Ronnie’s lead, putting them in their ears.

  ‘What do I do?’ Bailey said.

  ‘Stay here with Raj.’

  Bailey wanted to argue. He needed to help. He couldn’t shake the image of Dexter’s terrified face from his mind. But the last thing he wanted to do was get in the way. What the hell did he know about raiding a
house? The only place he’d ever broken into was his home in Paddington after he’d locked himself out.

  ‘We’re going to need to stay close.’ Ronnie was talking to Kim. ‘Remember, people are still tucked up asleep. Every sound will carry.’ Ronnie was still fiddling with his earpiece as he spoke. ‘We’ll do a comms check when we’re out of the van. Any questions?’

  Everyone shook their heads.

  Ronnie slid open the door and stepped onto the concrete, Kim in tow.

  A car pulled in behind the van. Bailey poked his head out the door in time to see Tony Dorset climb out of a black BMW four-wheel drive. He headed straight for Ronnie and Kim, who were standing on the footpath in their vests, each holding an M4 carbine rifle, ready to go.

  ‘What the fuck is this, Ronnie?’

  Four more four-wheel drives pulled up, blocking off the street.

  ‘This is exactly what I wanted to avoid,’ Ronnie whispered loudly, pointing at all the cars. ‘You try to blast your way in there and this thing’s over before it begins.’

  ‘Need I remind you that these are British streets. And we’ve had a little more experience with terrorism here than you guys.’

  Bailey was out of the van, standing behind Ronnie.

  ‘And what the fuck is he doing here?’ Dorset was pointing at Bailey.

  ‘He’s staying with the van,’ Ronnie said. ‘Anyway, if you’ve got a better idea, then go ahead. You’ve got exactly thirty seconds.’

  Bailey was confused about what was going on. One minute, Ronnie was running the show. The next, he was preparing to take orders from Tony Dorset.

  Ronnie got distracted and touched his ear. ‘Can you repeat that, Raj? Raj? I’ve got static, I can’t hear you. Raj?’

  They were so close to the van that Raj just stuck his head out the door. ‘There’s someone coming,’ he whispered. ‘A guy on the footpath. Sweatpants and a hoodie.’

  ‘How far?’

  Raj’s head disappeared again as he checked the monitor. Then he was back. ‘Fifty metres, maybe less.’

  ‘Get in the van,’ Ronnie said to Bailey. ‘Everyone, out of sight.’

  Bailey did what he was told and Ronnie climbed in beside him. The door of the van was still open and they could see the corner of Harrow Road through the side-mirror. Kim stayed outside, crouching behind the bonnet of one of the four-wheel drives.

  The guy in the hoodie stopped at the corner, head down, like he was holding a phone, looking for directions. He turned and started walking along the footpath beside the vehicles.

  ‘Okay,’ Ronnie whispered. ‘It’s probably nothing, but we can’t take the risk. Kim, you need to grab this guy.’

  Kim stepped forward onto the footpath. She wasn’t carrying her rifle, probably to avoid scaring him. ‘Sir, can I have a quick word?’

  The guy turned and started walking onto the road in between the cars.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Something’s not right,’ Ronnie whispered.

  ‘Sir, if you’d just stop for a moment.’ Kim followed the man’s path onto the road, unclipping the Glock from the holster in her armpit. ‘Sir, you need to stop, right now.’

  Bailey couldn’t see Kim anymore.

  ‘Bomb! He’s got a bomb!’ The panic in Kim’s voice was amplified by the still of night.

  ‘Take him out!’ Ronnie yelled.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  BOOM!

  A light flashed outside and the force of the blast flipped the van onto its side, sending Bailey and Ronnie and Raj all bouncing into each other.

  Bailey’s ears were ringing and his vision was blurry from the flash. He started moving his limbs, one at a time, checking that nothing was broken. He could hear screaming outside the van and the crinkling, flickering sound of fire.

  ‘Ronnie? Raj?’ Bailey called out. ‘Are you guys all right?’

  The computers in the van were buzzing with static and the screens were riddled with cracks.

  ‘We’ve got to get out,’ Ronnie said. ‘Raj, are you okay? Answer me, Raj?’

  Raj was out cold. Blood was running down his face from a cut somewhere on his head.

  ‘Raj?’ Ronnie leaned in to listen to his breathing. ‘He’s alive.’

  Ronnie turned Raj onto his side, feeling around his head to find out where the bleeding was coming from. ‘It’s just a scrape.’

  ‘What the fuck just happened?’ Bailey said.

  Ronnie ignored the question and climbed over the front seat, pushing open the driver’s door, like he was opening the hatch of a submarine. ‘Bailey! Come on! We’ll come back for Raj.’

  Outside, there was a smoking crater in the road at least three or four metres wide. Three of the four-wheel drives had been flipped by the force of the blast. Metal was twisted, cars were on fire, two of them with black silhouettes of people inside. Dead. There were so many bodies on the ground and inside the burning vehicles that it was impossible to count them. The smell took Bailey back to Beirut and his first ever car bomb. The one that took out a president and ten others. It was the day he met Ronnie Johnson.

  Bailey climbed down the side of the van onto the road and started looking around for survivors. There was a guy on his knees, clambering away from one of the burning vehicles. Bailey ran over to him, helping him to his feet, wondering how on earth he was still alive. He sat the guy down, away from the burning cars, and went looking for other survivors.

  Ronnie was standing over the bodies of two of Dorset’s team. They’d been crushed by the cascade of cars that piled into each other from the force of the bomb.

  ‘Ronnie!’ Kim was more than ten metres away, her vest torn and dented by shrapnel from the bomb, limping towards them, checking her arms and torso for any sign of injuries. She had been blown clear by the bomb. God knows how she’d survived.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ronnie said.

  ‘I’m not sure . . . I don’t think anything’s broken.’

  Kim had pockmarks of blood on her cheek and chin. Ronnie ran his hands over her neck, arms and shoulders. ‘You’re one lucky woman,’ he said. ‘What the fuck happened?’

  ‘I pulled my gun when he wouldn’t answer . . . he had something in his hand . . . with wires coming from it.’ Kim was speaking in short bursts, trying to catch her breath. ‘A gun in his other hand . . . he just unloaded on me . . . I fired back as I leapt behind the car . . . trying to find some cover.’

  ‘Ronnie!’ Tony Dorset’s head appeared at the front of a four-wheel drive that was lying on its side in front of them. He was trying to kick out what remained of the shattered windscreen so that he could get out. ‘Give me a hand, would you?’

  ‘Get back.’ Ronnie climbed up onto the car, kicking at the windscreen until it folded in.

  Dorset and two other men climbed out. One of them was Ben.

  ‘You okay, kid?’ Bailey said.

  ‘I think so,’ Ben said.

  Dorset was straight onto his phone, calling for ambulances, firefighters and every cop in the area to get there. When he was done, he turned to Ronnie. ‘We need to lockdown these streets, no one goes near the house.’

  ‘They knew we were coming,’ Ronnie said.

  ‘What’re you saying?’

  ‘It took my team less than an hour to find the house after that image was posted. They wanted us here. This was a trap.’

  Dorset was shaking his head. ‘What the fuck have we walked into?’

  ‘We need to move,’ Ronnie said. ‘We can’t waste time.’

  ‘No. We need to wait,’ Dorset said.

  ‘For what?’ Bailey said. ‘Dexter could still be in that house. Wait for what?’

  ‘I’ve got another team on the way,’ Dorset said.

  Bailey didn’t like it. ‘How far?’

  ‘Ten, fifteen minutes. No more.’

  ‘No. No.’ Bailey was shaking his head. He turned to Ronnie. ‘Fuck this, mate. We’ve got to get to Sharon.’

  Mustafa had probably rigged the place with explosiv
es, or stationed some of his loyal lunatics inside with weapons. Or both. Every minute mattered.

  ‘There’s no “we” here, Bailey,’ Dorset said. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’

  ‘Don’t you see what’s going on here, Dorset?’ Ronnie said. ‘This attack was directed at you and your guys. If you send a special ops team charging through the front door then that house is likely to go boom.’

  Dorset put up his hand ‘Hang on, Ronnie . . . give me a minute to think.’

  They didn’t have a minute.

  ‘We need a small team at this,’ Ronnie said. ‘Anything more, they’ll see us coming.’

  Ambulances had arrived and the street was being transformed into a triage centre, with people like Raj being treated in an area littered with smoking debris. The only uninjured people left were standing around Dorset, waiting for him to make a call.

  ‘Okay.’ Dorset relented. ‘But you’re not doing it alone. I’m in good shape, so’s Ben. That makes four.’

  ‘I’m coming too,’ Bailey said.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Dorset said. ‘You’re staying here.’

  Ronnie pulled Dorset aside, speaking quietly so that nobody else could hear. Then he climbed into the back of the overturned van, returning with a Glock in his hand. He held out the weapon to Bailey. ‘Know how to use one of these, bubba?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s the safety.’ Ronnie pointed to a small switch on the side of the gun, shifting it back and forth with his thumb. ‘When the safety’s pointing this way, it can’t go bang. And the bullets come out this end.’

  ‘Got it.’ Bailey took the Glock and shoved it in the back of his jeans, like he’d seen people do in the movies. That was about all that he knew about guns.

  ‘He’s your responsibility,’ Dorset said, pointing his finger at Ronnie.

  ‘No problem.’ Ronnie winked at Bailey. ‘We’ve done this before.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Bailey said.

  ‘At least you get a gun this time, bubba.’

  They were standing outside the three-storey building on the corner of First Avenue, searching for signs of life inside.

  Police had blocked off a large section of Harrow Road that ran from Elgin Avenue all the way to Queen’s Park Library up on Fourth Avenue. The few uniformed officers who had arrived were going door-to-door evacuating people from the houses and apartments. Trying to explain to them why they needed to leave.