by Karla Forbes
He stumbled along the narrow road, feeling exposed in spite of the darkness, but no one stepped out in his path to aim a gun at his chest. As the boats came into view, he caught his breath and pulled back into the shadows. Hubner was bending down over a shape on the ground. From a distance it looked like a heap of old clothes, but Nick recognised it for what it was. He watched as Hubner straightened up and looked around him, as though checking that he was still alone. The shape on the ground didn’t move.
Nick smiled to himself with cold satisfaction: two down and one to go. The hyenas were turning on each other, and the odds were improving by the minute. He watched as Hubner glanced over to where the box of diamonds was still lying on the ground. As he walked over to retrieve them, Nick’s mind was racing. If it came to a straight fight he knew, with absolute certainty, that he would lose. He had been feeling ill for days; there was no point in deluding himself. If he pitted his strength against Hubner, the man wouldn’t even break sweat as he killed him. There had to be another way.
He turned on his heel and loped back the way he had come, skirting the riverbank as he searched for what he needed. He found it a few yards down: a thick coil of rope that had been carelessly abandoned inside an old rowing boat. It was one of several used by the owners of the larger vessels to ferry them back and forth from the bank to where their boats were moored further out in the river. Before he had time to think about the insaneness of what he was doing, he gathered up the rope and waded into the water.
He grimaced, knowing it was stagnant and polluted by fuel and waste from the boats. The cold gripped his legs, but he kept on going, faltering only when it reached his chest. He took a sharp breath and ducked down until he was submerged completely and he was immediately convulsed by shudders. Tucking the heavy rope under one arm he began to swim, taking care not to disturb the water as he cut his way, silently, back towards Hubner.
As Nick’s head broke the surface he saw Hubner lifting the box onto the deck. He had only seconds to act. He dived again, swimming under the boat and dragging the coil of rope with him. In his mind, he could see Hubner carrying the box into the cockpit and searching for somewhere to stow it.
He felt around in the gloomy darkness for the propeller, and realised that he was being pulled gently towards the blades. The tide was on the turn. A vision of the engine firing into life and metal slicing through flesh rushed, unbidden, into his mind. He pushed it angrily away, untied the rope and began to loop it clumsily around the propeller. He was numb with the cold and his movements were slow and heavy. The rope slipped through his frozen fingers and he began to panic as he fumbled around in the sediment trying to locate it. He told himself to get a grip and suddenly it was there, right under his feet.
He tried again, aware of the tide gaining in strength and pulling him with a stronger force towards the propeller. He wound the rope twice, three times, around the blades but then he knew, as clearly as though he was standing on deck, that Hubner was in the cockpit ready to hot-wire the engine.
The sixth sense that Nick had learnt to trust screamed at him warning him that he was out of time. He quickly coiled the rope once around the rudder and then shoved the last few feet into the blades before turning away. At that precise moment, the engine spluttered into life and the propeller began to turn.
As Nick fought to swim clear, the boat picked up speed and he found himself being dragged back. His lungs railed against the lack of oxygen as he struggled to get a purchase on the soft, slippery riverbed beneath his feet. The need to breathe became overwhelming, but then the propeller faltered as the rope was sucked in. The blades stilled, then snapped with the force of brittle toffee shattering under a hammer.
Nick snatched the chance and swam backwards, breaking the surface and filling his lungs with air. Hearing a bellow of rage, he looked back to the boat and saw Hubner hanging over the rail. Nick turned onto his front and began to swim but heard a splash in the water behind him. Hubner was on him in seconds, grabbing him around the throat and pulling him under.
“Ich habe genug von dir, du verfluchter Hund!” he thundered. “Jetzt bring’ ich dich um.”
Nick didn’t need to know the words to understand their meaning. He didn’t waste time trying to prise Hubner’s hands off his windpipe. There was no point. Hubner was squeezing with a ferocity bordering on madness. Instead Nick reached out, feeling for Hubner’s eyes and gouged at the sockets until he felt the grip on his throat lessen. Hubner gave an involuntarily gasp of pain and began to retch as the filthy river water flooded into his mouth. Nick reacted immediately, thrusting his own hands between Hubner’s and shoving them forcibly away before kicking backwards, frantically striving for the surface. Hubner lunged at him again, wrapping both arms tightly around his chest in a parody of a lover’s embrace and forcing the air from his lungs.
Nick felt the strength draining out of his body as his oxygen-starved cells screamed for relief. He angled his knee and jerked it upward with force into Hubner’s groin. It wasn’t enough. Slowed by the current and the cold, it made little impact. Hubner squeezed harder, his face stretched into a maniacal grin. Nick groped for Hubner’s testicles, latched onto them and wrenched hard. He saw Hubner’s eyes widen and for the briefest of seconds, his grip on Nick failed. Nick twisted out of his clutches and began to swim, but almost immediately, he felt Hubner scrabbling for his legs, holding onto them and pulling him back down.
Nick kicked out and felt his foot make contact with soft flesh. He kicked again as he strove to break the surface, but Hubner was working his way up his legs, reaffirming his hold as he tightened his grip. Slowly, Nick felt himself being pulled back under…
Then, without warning, he became aware of other shapes in the water around him. He didn’t stop to think what they were; the need to breathe was all that mattered. Hands reached down to him, clutching hold of his clothes, and suddenly he was being hauled out of the water, away from Hubner. He couldn’t make out what was happening. His head broke the surface and he gulped at the air. He looked up and saw uniformed officers reaching out to him from the bank. The next minute he was being dumped ignominiously at their feet, dripping wet and trembling violently from the effects of adrenaline and the cold.
A man detached himself from the group and stepped forward.
“Mr Sullivan?” he enquired politely. “My name is Mark Anson. It’s nice of you to drop in.”
Chapter Nineteen
With the approach of darkness, people began walking towards the parks and commons. In threes and fours they came, mostly with children but some without. All ages were represented, from the very young to the not so young; some looking forward to the evening, and others doing their parental duty but wishing they were down the pub. The weather was about as perfect as it could be: dry and cold with a gentle breeze. The organisers had been busy for several hours, working to a tight schedule and planning a public display that would build up to a breathtaking finale and send everyone home happy. Youngsters were excitedly asking when it was all going to kick off, and parents were peering at their watches and telling them: Not long now. At various times around London the fun would soon begin.
***
Nick wasn’t sure whether he had been rescued or arrested. No one was actually reading him his rights, but the half a dozen MP5 rifles pointed in his direction didn’t look too promising. He looked over to where Hubner had been clapped into handcuffs, and took comfort from the fact that his adversary seemed to be faring a whole lot worse.
An ambulance drove into view at speed, but a policeman hurried over with his hand held out to intercept it and gestured for the driver to wait. Nick pulled himself unsteadily to his feet and looked uncomprehendingly around him. He could see Ed standing a little way off and threw him a questioning look, but Ed gave him an apologetic shrug and stayed where he was.
“What’s going on?” Nick asked, addressing the question to Anson.
“Just one moment, Mr Sullivan,” Anson said, not unkindly. “We ne
ed to run some checks.”
“Checks?” Nick repeated vaguely, but in that moment his attention was drawn to the sight of two men approaching, both kitted out in full protective gear. He began to wonder if he had contracted Bubonic Plague whilst on the run. One of the men took in both Nick and Hubner with a pessimistic glance before conferring with Anson.
“These men are wet,” he pointed out. “The presence of water might affect the accuracy of the reading.”
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Nick asked politely.
Both men ignored him. “We don’t need an accurate reading,” Anson pointed out. “We just need to know if they’re contaminated.”
“Err… Excuse me,” Nick ventured. “Contaminated?”
Assistant Chief Constable Rowland walked over and joined the discussion. “Mr Anson is right and we’re running out of time. The two-hour deadline is long gone.”
“Deadline?” Nick asked, struggling to make sense of what was happening.
Rowland turned to the man holding the Geiger counter. “Make a start on the dry body. We need some results quick.”
Nick had had enough. “What the hell are you all talking about?” he bellowed. His anger might have been more impressive if he hadn’t spoilt the effect by immediately wheezing.
Anson threw him a look of concern, but continued to ignore him. “Contaminated or not, we’re going to have to make a start. We don’t have time to stand around following procedures when the risk is probably negligible.”
“I agree,” Rowland said. “Take them in.”
“Are you arresting me?” Nick asked incredulously. He had begun to foster a small hope that he was no longer the main suspect for the murder of Tim Wellerby.
“You’re not being arrested,” Rowland said, having evidently decided that Nick’s ability to speak and hear was still fully functional. “You’re helping us with our enquiries.”
“Listen to me,” Nick said. “I don’t pretend to know what’s going on, but it’s obvious you’re up against a deadline. Why don’t you get on with asking me your questions? If I can help, I will. If I can’t, taking me to a police station won’t make any difference.”
Rowland looked at him for several seconds, a thoughtful look on his face, then turned away and addressed a policeman at his side.
“Have Hubner taken to Canterbury Police Station to be processed and interviewed.”
Hubner pulled himself up to his full height as hands fastened onto him. “You can interview me as much as you like, but it won’t get you anywhere.” Two heavily-built officers began frogmarching him away, but he dug in his heels and called over his shoulder. “How will history judge a government that did nothing to save its own people?”
One of the policemen jerked on Hubner’s manacled wrists. With a last withering look, he allowed himself to be led away.
Rowland turned back to Nick, who was now trembling violently.
“We can sit in my car out of the cold, but I want you to start talking,” he said. He nodded to Anson, and the two men positioned themselves on either side and marched him to a waiting car. Nick felt uncomfortably like a man who was hovering on the brink of being taken into custody. Rowland indicated the back seat and Anson slipped in beside him, with Rowland himself taking the front passenger seat.
“Now,” Rowland said, turning around, “summarise what you know and how you’ve been spending the last few days. But keep it brief.”
Nick took a deep breath marshalled his thoughts and told them everything, from when he had first gone on the run to when he had followed Wilson and Fox to London. Anson and Rowland exchanged guarded looks.
“Now listen,” Anson said leaning forward. “This is important. You must tell us exactly where they went and what they did.”
Nick was aware of the tension in the car. He could almost reach out and touch it. He sat back and folded his arms.
“Why don’t you tell me what you think I saw and I’ll tell you if I saw it?”
Anson and Rowland glanced questioningly at each other. It was Anson who spoke first.
“We’re hoping you saw where Wilson and Fox planted one or several bombs.”
Nick didn’t appear to react, but his stomach did a somersault. “Plutonium bombs?” he asked, surprised at how calm his voice sounded.
Both men looked shocked. “What do you know about that?” Rowland demanded.
“Nothing,” Nick admitted. “But when we were driving to the creek, Hubner referred to plutonium, and now you’re asking about bombs. Are you saying they’ve got nuclear technology?”
Anson shook his head. “I sincerely hope not, but we’ve got reason to think that they’ve planted a number of dirty bombs around the capital. And the deadline they gave us has already passed.”
Nick fell silent as he desperately tried to remember what he had seen. He went over it all in his mind, from the briefcases they were carrying to the coats they had constantly changed into. They hadn’t been masquerading as police, so what else? The fire brigade, possibly? He couldn’t be sure. But why leave the bombs in ordinary parks and commons? The answer was just on the periphery of his reasoning, elusive but probably blindingly obvious if he could just work it out. He thought harder, and then the first stirrings of an idea came to him. He experienced a chill down the back of his spine as he considered the inconceivable.
“What would these dirty bombs look like?” he asked quietly.
“They could take almost any form,” Anson said sharply. “Why?”
“Forgive my ignorance,” Nick said, “but am I right in thinking that if you mix radioactive material with anything explosive, you have the potential for a dirty bomb?”
“Yes, that’s right,” Anson snapped. “What are you getting at?”
“So in theory, if you could insert plutonium powder into ordinary fireworks, you’ve got yourself a dirty bomb.”
Anson stared at Nick in horror. “Christ,” he said, his jaw hanging open. He seemed to have lost the power of speech.
Rowland looked from him to Nick and began to smile. “Fireworks?” he said with derision. “We’re looking for dirty bombs, not a bunch of sparklers.” He turned back to Anson and his smile faded. “What is it?” he asked anxiously. “Am I missing something?”
Anson’s face was the colour of parchment. “It’s a disaster,” he muttered. “Hundreds…thousands of people will be standing around breathing it in. They won’t realise the danger because there won’t be an explosion. The smoke will build up, preventing the plutonium from dissipating safely away. Every man, woman and child present will be at risk of developing cancer.”
“It’s not feasible,” Rowland said, as though not wanting to believe it. “Fireworks are too small. You wouldn’t get enough plutonium inside one to kill a hamster.”
“You might be right if we were talking about the sort of fireworks you buy for the garden,” Anson explained. “But these aren’t. They’re fireworks for public displays. Some of them weigh pounds. If one of those buggers was packed full of radioactive material it could irradiate everyone watching, especially if the plutonium is falling back to earth.” He turned to Nick. “How sure are you?”
Nick shook his head despairingly. “I’m not sure. I’m only guessing. Wilson was taking things out of a big box he had on the back seat. I couldn’t see what they were, but they looked heavy and he was slipping them into a shoulder bag, as though he didn’t want anyone to see. .”
Rowland snatched a look at his watch. “It’s nearly six o’clock in the evening...”
“…and the date is November the fifth.” Anson finished for him. He grabbed Nick by the arm. “Where did they go? Quick!”
“Streatham,” Nick said. “Clapham… Wimbledon as well I think…I can’t remember.”
“You must remember,” Rowland hissed. “You were there. What’s the matter with you?”
“That’s the trouble,” Nick said. “I followed them for hours feeling like shit. I was so ill I couldn’t
think straight. Wait… They went to Roundwood Park.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes… I think. Yes, I’m sure.”
“This is hopeless,” Rowland said, grinding his teeth in exasperation. “We’re running out of time. We’ll have to get the Home Secretary’s permission to have every official firework display in the country stopped. We must have warning messages transmitted on all satellite and terrestrial channels.”
“We can’t do that,” Anson protested. “It will cause widespread panic.”
“Better than causing widespread death,” Rowland threw back at him.
“No, it’s out of the question,” Anson said defiantly. “If we stop every display it’s as good as admitting we’re powerless to protect our own citizens.”
“Shut up and let me think!” Nick bellowed. “If you give me a moment, it’ll come to me.”
Anson and Rowland fell quiet, staring at him with intensity. Nick hunched in the seat, grinding his palms into his eyes as he concentrated. When he lowered his hands to his sides, he was calm and in control.
“Write this down,” he ordered.
Rowland grabbed a pen and paper from the glove compartment and began scribbling as Nick spoke.
“They went to Clapham Common, Streatham Common, Roundwood Park, and Wimbledon Park.” Nick could almost have believed he was dictating a shopping list, not a litany of potential death. It was surreal.
Rowland waited, the pen poised over the paper. “Is that everywhere?” he asked.
Nick nodded. “Yes, that’s it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
Rowland grabbed his phone and began barking instructions. Within minutes he was talking to his colleagues at Scotland Yard telling them where to send their squad cars, if it wasn’t already too late.”
He turned back to Anson. “If you’re a religious man, you might want to say a quick prayer. If they don’t get there in time, the country has a major incident on its hands.”
“This plutonium,” Nick said thoughtfully. “What does it look like?”