Simpson swung round to look at the map on the wall behind him. ‘You’re still convinced the attack will be south of the river, then?’
‘Yes, because all of the car-bombs have been to the north.’
‘So…’ Simpson broke off as his phone suddenly rang. A minute later he replaced the receiver. ‘There’s been another bombing,’ he said, ‘this time at Wanstead. And, to save you checking, it was nice and handy for the M11 and A12. That’s four so far.’ He returned his gaze to the map. ‘But you’ve forgotten Falconwood.’
‘What?’
‘Falconwood. It’s south-west, out by Eltham. And, actually, you do know that Fulham is north of the Thames?’
‘Yes, but if I’m right, the target is actually on the river itself. And I’ve never even heard of Falconwood.’
‘No,’ Simpson agreed, ‘frankly, nor had I until I looked at this map, but maybe you should still check it before you swoop out of the sky on Fulham with all guns blazing.’
‘That wasn’t exactly what I’d planned. I was going to check all the boats and barges heading towards the bridge there, and I’ll only start shooting at them if they fire at me first.’
Simpson looked doubtful. ‘You think they’re planning their big attack so soon?’ he asked.
‘Yes, obviously. They’ll want to take full advantage of all the confusion caused by those car-bombs. My guess is that whatever vessel they’re using to deliver their device must already be fairly close to the Fulham railway bridge. That’s why I whistled up the chopper.’
‘So what about Falconwood?’
At that moment the throbbing of rotor blades became clearly audible even through the bullet-proof glass of Simpson’s office windows. Then the noise died away as the aircraft landed on the reinforced flat roof.
‘If you’re bothered, check it out yourself. I don’t have the time. What you can do, though, is call the Met and suggest they get some ARVs and snipers down to Fulham straight away.’
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
‘Who are you exactly, and where are we going?’ the RAF pilot demanded as Richter strapped in and pulled on a headset.
‘Let’s get airborne first, and I’ll fill you in on the way. Head for Fulham, and get down low over the Thames. And put your foot down – I’m in a hurry.’
‘Fulham? Christ, you could have walked there in the time it took us to fly here from Wattisham.’
‘I know,’ Richter snapped, ‘but just do it now, will you?’
‘Right. Going off intercom to get clearance,’ the pilot said.
A few seconds later, the noise of the two jet engines rose to a scream and the big helicopter rose into the air, adopting a nose-down attitude as the pilot swung the aircraft around to the east and accelerated.
‘Now who are you, then?’ the pilot demanded again.
‘My name’s Paul Richter, and I suppose you could say I’m a civil servant.’
‘A fucking well-armed civil servant,’ the aircrewman contributed. ‘Boss, this guy’s carrying a submachine-gun, a combat shotgun, even a pistol under his arm.’
‘I do like to be prepared,’ Richter said.
‘OK, Mr Richter, we’re on the way. Now answer my question: what are we supposed to be doing down in Fulham? In case you hadn’t noticed, this is a military rescue helicopter, not a taxi service. If you just needed to get there in a hurry, you could have whistled up a civilian Jet Ranger or something.’
‘I was aware of that, thank you,’ Richter replied. ‘I called you because Wattisham is pretty close to London, and I know you’ve got a maximum response time of fifteen minutes in daylight hours. That was one thing but, more important, this chopper has a winch and a guy in the back who knows how to use it. Your average Jet Ranger doesn’t possess either.’
‘So this is a rescue, then?’ the pilot asked.
‘In a manner of speaking, yes. I’m looking for some kind of river vessel loaded with explosives that a bunch of German terrorists is intending to blow up under Fulham Railway Bridge, most likely when an underground train is crossing it.’
‘Are you sure?’ the pilot asked doubtfully.
‘Right now,’ Richter said, ‘we’re not sure of anything, but that seems the most logical deduction. Why?’
‘It’s just that a railway bridge is a really hard target. I mean, it’s designed to take the weight of a train, so it’s incredibly strong, all reinforced concrete piers and massive steel girders. Even demolition teams find them difficult to destroy by using shaped charges and drilling holes into the concrete for the explosives. I’m not sure that even a barge full of Semtex would be enough to bring one down.’
‘Are you an explosives expert, or what?’
‘No,’ the pilot replied, ‘but I did watch a programme about bridge demolition on the Discovery Channel a few weeks ago. It was really interesting.’
‘I’m sure it was,’ Richter muttered, as the helicopter dropped down over Putney Bridge. The railway bridge was right in front of them, and the helicopter banked as it over-flew the structure.
Looking down at the massive reinforced concrete piers and monumental steelwork, Richter had to concede that the pilot had made a good point. Blowing a hole in something constructed like that wouldn’t be easy, and he experienced a sudden hollow feeling in his stomach. Suppose he’d completely misread Morschel’s intentions? What if the German had a completely different target in mind?
And as he stared up and down the river, and saw nothing looking even remotely like a vessel carrying an improvised bomb, these doubts were reinforced.
‘Just take a quick flip half a mile down-river,’ Richter instructed, ‘then do the same up-stream, and keep your eyes peeled for anything suspicious.’
Ten minutes later, they gave up. All the river traffic they’d over-flown seemed depressingly normal and legitimate.
‘What’s the terrorists’ objective?’ the pilot asked, as he turned the helicopter back towards Fulham.
‘A big bang,’ Richter replied, ‘and the bigger the better. Somewhere in the London area.’
‘Well, if I was him, I know exactly where I’d go to set off my load of plastic explosive.’
‘Where?’ Richter asked, sharply.
So the pilot told him.
Rochester, Kent
The two Germans double-checked all the connections they’d made to the wiring, making sure that everything was absolutely correct and secure, because the small vessel had quite a long way to go to reach its objective, and probably would have to travel over fairly rough water. Though the marina itself was sheltered, there was quite a stiff wind blowing and they knew that once the boat left the River Medway, the sea would become quite choppy. The last thing they wanted was for the weapon to detonate prematurely or, worse, for a connection to come loose and prevent the explosion from occurring at all.
They’d just completed their final checks when Hagen spotted two figures heading along the pontoon towards them. He nudged Morschel and they both climbed out of the boat to meet the new arrivals.
The Saudi looked as immaculate as ever, and he was accompanied by another man, almost as big as bin-Salalah. Probably in his late twenties and wearing casual clothes, his features were regular, his face tanned, but what the two Germans noticed straightaway was that his eyes shone with a strange fervour.
‘This is Badri,’ bin-Salalah said. ‘He’s one of my cousins, and has volunteered to accompany the two of you on this vital mission.’
‘Your cousin?’ Morschel asked.
‘Yes.’ Bin-Salalah looked slightly surprised at such a question. ‘I’d always rather offer this kind of opportunity to a member of my family if possible.’
‘Opportunity?’ Morschel thought, and realized in a single moment of crystal-clear revelation that he would never, ever, begin to understand the Arab mind.
‘He does know the schedule?’ Hagen asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Badri replied firmly, his English fluent but heavily-accente
d. ‘I also know you will both be leaving the boat well before it reaches its target. When Ahmed suggested I consider joining this mission, that was one of my first concerns. No offence to either of you, but I have no wish to share my moment of glory with a couple of infidels.’
‘Jesus,’ Morschel muttered. ‘OK, can you handle the boat if something goes wrong en route?’
‘I have sailed several times,’ Badri said, with a trace of pride, ‘but I had understood the boat would be automatically guided to its destination.’
‘It certainly should be.’ Morschel nodded. ‘We’ve fitted a GPS and linked it to an autopilot. It was just in case something went wrong out in the estuary. Are you competent enough to take over if the GPS fails, say?’
‘If you mark the precise position on a chart, and there’s a compass on board, yes.’
Which was exactly the right answer, of course, though Morschel doubted if anything really would fail. The GPS and autopilot combination had been designed to be robust enough for trans-ocean sailing, which was one reason it had been so expensive, and it now only had to hang together for a couple of hours at the most.
‘OK, Badri, welcome to the team.’ Morschel turned to bin-Salalah and glanced at his watch. ‘Now we need to hot-wire one of these other boats.’
Hagen nodded. ‘There’s a twenty-footer at the other end of this pontoon. Judging by the state of it, it’s not been used recently, and I don’t think there’s even an alarm fitted. That should do us.’
‘OK, we’ll get it now, then, just in case there’s any problem. Badri, please just hang on here for a few minutes, then we’ll talk you through the controls and other stuff.’
‘No problem,’ bin-Salalah said. ‘That will give us time to take the photographs.’
As the two Germans walked away down the pontoon, Badri stepped aboard the boat, stood in the cockpit and raised a copy of the Koran above his head. Bin-Salalah removed a digital camera from his jacket pocket and took a series of photographs of the shahid, pictures that he would post on the internet and release to the news media once this operation was completed. Following bin-Salalah’s explicit directions, Badri had already made a video explaining his motivation for choosing martyrdom. That, too, bin-Salalah would be releasing in a day or two. It was essential for Radical Islam that, not only was this attack successful, but the reasons behind it were clearly explained.
At the far end of the pontoon was moored a slightly grubby-looking craft, a little larger than the one Morschel had bought, with a blue hull and white superstructure, the cockpit currently hidden by a light blue cover that was torn in a couple of places. And Hagen was right: it didn’t look as if anyone had been anywhere near it for weeks.
‘There’s no power line,’ Morschel observed, ‘so even if there’s an alarm fitted, the battery will probably be flat by now. As long as the engine works, that should do us fine.’
They glanced round, but could see the entire marina was virtually deserted, and there was nobody anywhere near the pontoon they were standing on. Hagen bent down and released the eyelet securing one corner of the cover, then swiftly unhitched half a dozen more. He lifted the edge of the cover, peered into the cockpit, then stepped on board. He unclipped the rest of the eyelets, pulled off the cover entirely and folded it.
The boat had a cabin just forward of the cockpit, the door secured with a small padlock that yielded without any particular difficulty to the screwdriver Hagen carried in his pocket. He tossed the cover inside the cabin and turned his attention to the control panel, while Morschel checked the fuel level.
‘We’ve got about three-quarters of a tank,’ he announced. ‘That should be more than enough.’
The boat had a good-sized outboard motor, with all the controls, including the ignition system, slaved to the control panel. Hagen unscrewed a small inspection hatch on one side of it and peered inside. The terminals of the ignition switch were clearly visible. He clipped two leads to a couple of the wires he could see, and touched the bare ends together. Nothing happened: no spark, and no lights illuminated.
‘Either the battery’s been disconnected or it’s totally flat,’ he said. ‘If it’s got no charge left at all, we might have to pick another boat.’
Below the control panel was a small square box, the lid again secured with a padlock. As with the cabin door, a few tugs from Hagen’s screwdriver freed the lock. He opened the lid and looked inside. There was a heavy-duty twelve volt battery, both terminals connected, and with an isolator switch screwed to the side of the box. Hagen looked at the switch, then reached down and rotated it. Immediately an alarm began shrilling, and he turned it off again.
‘It’s here,’ Morschel said, pointing at a small speaker attached to the bulkhead above the wheel. He took a pair of pliers from his pocket and snipped through the wires leading to the speaker, then nodded to Hagen to try again.
This time, no alarm sounded, and when he touched his two wires together, the ignition warning light illuminated brightly.
‘Looks like a go,’ Morschel said, and waited while Hagen connected yet another wire, this one to the starter circuit. The outboard engine turned over, but didn’t start.
‘Just a minute. I’ll prime it.’ Morschel walked to the stern of the boat, squeezed a small bulb in the fuel line a few times, then nodded to Hagen. ‘Try it now.’
The motor span, coughed twice, then caught and settled down to a comforting growl.
‘I’ll get the ropes,’ Morschel said, hopped out onto the pontoon and quickly removed the bow and stern lines. ‘Take it round to the other end,’ he ordered, before walking back to the innocent-looking floating bomb they’d constructed earlier.
A couple of minutes later, Hagen expertly manoeuvred the stolen boat alongside the pontoon and held it in position while Morschel and Badri – who clearly knew at least something about boats – secured its lines to the mooring posts of the vacant berth just behind.
In reality, there wasn’t a lot they had to explain to Badri, since the detonation sequence would be automatic once the vessel reached its target, but Morschel showed him how the GPS worked, which he’d already set to use English as Badri spoke no German.
‘That is important for me,’ Badri said, ‘because I’ll need to know exactly when the explosion will occur. I have prayers to say just before that happens.’
‘Right,’ Morschel murmured, somewhat at a loss as to what else he could say.
He went on to show Badri how he could short-out the wires and initiate the explosion manually if necessary. The anti-tamper devices were still unarmed, and with Badri on board there was probably no need for them to be activated, but Morschel would connect them before he left the boat, just in case.
Together, Morschel and Hagen carried out a final comprehensive check of everything they had done, concentrating on the boat carrying the bomb itself, but also making sure that the second vessel was ready for their escape trip. Only when both of them were completely satisfied did Morschel give the order to start the engines.
Then he, Hagen and Badri climbed out of the boats and all three walked over to where Ahmed bin-Salalah stood watching.
‘We’ll see you back in Germany, Ahmed,’ Morschel said, and shook hands with him. Hagen replicated his action, and both Germans stepped back and turned again towards the boats, as the tall Arab embraced his cousin for what they both knew would be the last time.
Moments later, Badri trotted across the pontoon, released the mooring lines on Hagen’s hijacked boat, repeated the action on the bomb vessel, and nimbly jumped aboard to join Morschel. On the pontoon, bin-Salalah waved briefly, then turned back towards the car park.
It was just after one-fifteen when the two small vessels headed away from the marina and out into the slightly choppy waters of the Medway.
Chapter Sixteen
Monday
Hammersmith, London
The big Sikorsky settled on the landing pad atop the FOE building and the aircrewman slid open the side door.
Thirty seconds later he entered his office, sat down and powered up his desktop. While he waited for the computer to boot-up, he made a brief call using an outside line. Then he opened his web browser and carried out a short but very specific search. He printed off a couple of sheets of paper through his laser printer, then shut down the PC and left the office at a run.
SAR Sea King helicopter, callsign ‘Rescue 24’
Back on the roof, Richter strapped himself back into the seat in the Sikorsky, before instructing the pilot to head this time to a completely different destination.
‘You were right,’ he said grimly. ‘Sheppey, as quick as you can.’
‘You got it,’ the pilot replied, and almost immediately the big helicopter lifted off the helipad and turned due east.
‘Have you got a second radio I can use? Preferably one I can link to a landline? I need to brief my own people on what we’ve worked out, and if I try using my mobile, nobody will hear a word I say in here.’
‘Yes, hang on and I’ll try and patch you into the system through one of the Coastguard frequencies. What number did you want?’
Richter gave him the open-line number for FOE and waited. After about two minutes he heard a ringing tone in his earpiece, and the Duty Officer answered moments later.
‘It’s Richter. Patch me through to Simpson, please.’
‘There is a procedure for this kind of thing, you know.’
‘Screw the procedure. Just plug me in.’
‘OK, OK. Hang on.’
Simpson’s voice was unmistakable, and unmistakably irritated.
‘Richter? I’ve got armed officers from the Met swarming around Fulham Railway Bridge, but they’re reporting no activity whatsoever, and your helicopter has apparently vanished. Where the hell are you?’
Richter looked out of the door windows. ‘Over central London, just passing the Courgette, en route to the Isle of Sheppey.’
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