Defend or Die

by Tom Marcus

  ‘If there was an attack on four British mosques and the nerve agent responsible was found to be ZX4, who do you think the finger would point to?’

  There was silence round the table as the implications of that sunk in.

  ‘So you think the Russians have been making their own ZX4 so they can use it in a false flag operation?’

  Mrs Allenby nodded. ‘That would certainly explain where Weston got it from.’

  Alex sat forward. ‘Remember that car that turned up, when we were first monitoring the house? Disappears into the garage then comes straight out again? Maybe that was a delivery.’

  ‘And I don’t think it was just pizza,’ Ryan agreed. ‘If it’s true the Russians have been making their own knock-off ZX4, and Weston has handed it over to Martindale, then we need to call in the heavy mob – get the stuff out of the church before it can be used,’ Ryan said.

  Mrs Allenby looked at him. ‘I don’t think it’s quite that simple. How would we convince them our information was reliable? And the stuff may not even be in the church any more. More to the point, think of the implications if a quantity of ZX4 is found in a church, ready to be used in a series of terror attacks. If Martindale spills the beans, the result could be almost as devastating to this country as if the attacks had actually taken place.’

  ‘So it’s down to us, then,’ Alex said.

  Mrs Allenby nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘And right now we only know the location of one of the targets.’

  ‘So we’d better get our thinking caps on, hadn’t we?’ Mrs Allenby said.

  53

  Martindale had been behaving oddly all morning. Normally he’d arrive at the church around seven, then come and find me in my little cubbyhole, where I’d make sure I already had my head in the Bible he’d given me. We’d say some prayers together and he’d choose a passage – usually Matthew or Mark – and get me to read it aloud to him until I got to a word or a phrase that set him off for some reason and then he’d start talking in that low, soothing way he had, about Jesus or Jerusalem or whatever and I’d let it just flow over me, lulling me into a waking sleep. When he finished, I’d always feel nice and relaxed but somehow slower, like he’d given me some sort of tranquillizer. Was it actually a kind of hypnosis? Was that how he maintained control? All I knew was it took me a while to shake myself loose and start thinking clearly again.

  Today had been different. I had no way of telling the time, but I knew Martindale was late. When he finally arrived, he was agitated, antsy, smiling and talking to himself. Our Bible-reading session was shorter than usual and this time he just let me read, as if for once he wanted me sharp and alert, not nodding off into dreamland. He told me to wait in the vestry, locking the door after him, while he ministered to the various people who turned up at the church door, but then after a while I heard the church door slamming shut and the key turning in the lock. That was something he never did during the day: the church was open to all comers. So what was he up to? After about half an hour he came back, blessed the little gaggle of regulars who’d been waiting outside, then shooed them out and locked up again. I could hear him mumbling some prayers inside the church and then he came and unlocked the vestry door.

  I looked up from my Bible reading. He was dressed in his white monk’s cowl. He just stood there, looking at me, and for a moment I was convinced he knew who I really was. Then he smiled.

  ‘Do you remember the number?’

  ‘Two one two seven,’ I said without hesitation.

  He nodded. ‘And you have the map?’

  I pulled it out of the front pocket of my jeans. He held out his hand and I let him take it. In his other hand he was holding a box of matches. He struck one and touched the paper to the flame, watching until it burned down to his fingers, then dropped the blackened fragments to the floor.

  ‘It’s time,’ he said.

  My stomach lurched, and the feeling of vague unease I’d had since waking up in the dark solidified into panic. What the bloody hell day was it?

  Then I realized how badly I’d fucked up. I’d thought it would happen in a few days; Alex and the team had time to figure out a plan. But my sense of time was skewed. Martindale had messed with my mind so I couldn’t keep track of the days.

  Today was Friday. Of course it bloody was.

  And that meant Friday prayers.

  Martindale’s edginess, all his mysterious comings and goings: he’d been getting the others ready, a modern-day Guy Fawkes putting a match to his four fuses and his four barrels of gunpowder.

  Did that mean they were already on the way to their targets? Friday prayers were at noon. That would be when he’d want the ZX4 to be released. So what was the time now? However long it would take me to walk to my target, the Hanbury Place Mosque – that was how much time we had.

  I stood up, desperate now for him to send me on my way. He reached into his robe and pulled out a small backpack. I took it from him and he laid both hands on my shoulders.

  ‘You will be with God very soon now, Peter. How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Happy,’ I said, trying to sound excited at the prospect of unleashing an agonizing death on hundreds of innocent people before receiving the congratulations of their creator.

  ‘Then go with my blessing. Remember, have no fear. Stay calm. God will be with you at every moment. Walk steadily and you will be at your destination at the right time. When you are among them, open the phial.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I bowed my head. ‘Thank you.’

  I felt his hands leaving my shoulders. He went and stood by the door as I slung the backpack over my shoulders.

  As I passed him he made the sign of the cross.

  Outside, a light drizzle was starting to fall. I walked along the path, putting one foot mechanically in front of the other, resisting the temptation to break into a sprint until I’d turned the corner into the alley with the bins.

  I saw a hunched figure coming towards me. Shit. I couldn’t remember his name but I knew the shambling walk and the long, faded green coat. It was one of the down and outs from the warehouse by the river, and I knew if I raced past him as if my feet were on fire, he’d be sure to tell Martindale.

  I stopped and made myself smile. ‘How are you, brother?’

  He smiled back, showing a few rotten stumps. ‘He can’t reach it, see? Not enough rope. I told him.’

  I nodded. ‘I must go now, brother.’ I touched him lightly on the shoulder and walked on down the alley.

  ‘Get some rope,’ he called after me.

  I raised a hand without looking back. I counted to twenty, then turned. He was gone.

  Thank fuck. I raced to the end of the alley, my trainers slipping on the wet paving stones. To my left, through a wire fence, was a patch of waste ground overrun with weeds. I pushed through a gap in the fence and picked my way through the broken glass and empty laughing gas canisters until I reached a partially demolished wall on the other side. I carefully pulled out half a dozen bricks until I could see the top of a plastic supermarket bag, half buried in the earth. Thank fuck. I’d squirrelled it away the night before I let Stevie loose, and that was in the dark. I dug out a couple of scoops of earth with my hand to loosen it, then pulled it out. I started trying to unpick the knot at the top, but my fingers didn’t seem to be working properly and in the end I just ripped the bag open. A phone and a backup charger tumbled out, along with a pair of earbuds. I attached the cable and waited for the phone to power up. When the screen lit up I entered the passcode, then went to contacts, scrolled through and hit Alex’s number.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Alex, it’s me.’

  ‘Logan? Where the hell—’

  ‘Just shut up and listen. It’s happening now. Friday prayers. There are three more targets. We need to intercept the carriers before they get there.’

  ‘Give me the names.’

  ‘I don’t have the fucking names.’

  ‘Jesus. All righ
t. Let me call you back.’

  54

  It was all happening just like O’Dwyer said it would. First the text, then the meet on the bridge, which he knew would be just to check he hadn’t brought company, then the real meet which would be somewhere open, where everything would be on the table. Hansen was early – dawn just starting to silhouette the high-rises – which was deliberate, so they could have a good look at him, see he wasn’t texting every five minutes, and – again – check he hadn’t come mob-handed. He sat with his hands on the wheel, his lanky frame relaxed, looking straight ahead with no expression, the way you did when you’d been pulled over and the plods were searching the car. They could take all day, as far as he was concerned. He allowed himself a wry smile. Better safe than sorry.

  When the Lexus nosed its way slowly into the car park, then stopped, its headlights aimed straight at him, he didn’t move or take his hands off the wheel. This was the moment they’d take him, if that’s what they were planning to do, while he was temporarily blinded by the headlights. There would be another car, hidden in the alley behind the car park, and they’d come storming out of there, one with a hammer to the driver’s side window to get his attention, and then a second man would take the other window out – along with his head and most of his shoulders – with a shotgun. That’s how he’d have done it, anyway.

  Strangely, the thought of it didn’t make him anxious. What was going to happen was going to happen. If it didn’t go the way he’d planned, well, there was nothing he could do about it now. He blinked as the headlight beams swung away, and the car made a slow circle until it came to a halt, with the driver’s side window alongside his own. He waited until the driver had powered their window down, then followed suit.

  It was her. That was good. If it had been the boy, or just a couple of the goons, that would have complicated things. Or maybe just made them more simple. He would have been fucked.

  ‘Mr Hansen,’ she said, nodding.

  He nodded back. It was best not to show he knew who she was, but a quick glance had confirmed her identity.

  Stephanie Mason. Dressed in a too-tight tweed jacket and a floral silk scarf, with her horn-rimmed glasses and her hair in a neat perm, she looked like the headmistress of a posh girls’ school – or a judge, maybe, one of those annoying old birds who insisted on giving you a half-hour lecture on the evils of crime before they delivered the pathetic wrist slap your brief had negotiated.

  But Stephanie Mason was neither of those things. Before her old man had been put away, for all Hansen knew she’d spent her time making jam and pruning the roses. But not now. Now she was quickly building a reputation for ruthlessness – not to say vindictiveness – that made Terry look like a soft touch. Hansen wondered if she’d been the brains behind Terry’s operation all along, and he’d just been the front man, only playing the part of the big-time East End villain. Well, she was certainly the boss now. Denny was still a kid, or behaved like one. He wasn’t going to step into his dad’s shoes any time soon. In fact, the rumour was he preferred high heels anyway.

  ‘Do you know why I wanted to see you?’ she asked.

  ‘I can guess,’ Hansen said.

  ‘Your boss.’

  ‘Associate,’ Hansen said, feigning offence. ‘Partner, maybe.’

  ‘That’s not quite the truth, though, is it?’ she said. ‘Who gives the orders?’

  Hansen stayed silent.

  ‘I think it’s time you got a promotion, don’t you? And Mr O’Dwyer got a corresponding . . . demotion.’

  He turned to look at her, as if this was all a big surprise.

  She held out a manila envelope. ‘Twenty thousand. Half now, half on completion.’

  He pretended to think about it, then nodded and took the envelope. He knew he’d never see the rest, but ten grand was ten grand.

  ‘And if it’s a nice clean job, I’m sure we’ll be speaking again soon. With Mr O’Dwyer gone, you could find yourself a busy man.’

  He powered the window up and turned on the ignition. This was the tricky bit, trying to make sure he left the car park first. He pulled away, aiming for the exit. In his rear-view mirror, the Lexus still hadn’t moved. She might think he was being a little rude, but that didn’t matter now.

  As soon as he was out of the car park, he pulled over. He looked back. The Lexus was just starting to move. He picked up his phone from the seat beside him and flicked to the app. He pressed the icon and a keypad appeared. Glancing back at the Lexus again, he tapped in the three-digit code. She’d stopped, no doubt wondering what the hell he was doing. For a moment their eyes locked.

  Then the windows disintegrated and one of the doors blew open as the Lexus was rocked by a huge fireball, followed by a deafening boom. Hansen watched the flames raging inside the car until he was satisfied there could be no survivors, then put the car in gear just as the first bits of debris started to rain down.

  55

  ‘Where is he?’ Mrs Allenby asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alex said. ‘Near the church, I think. He’s just been given the green light by Martindale. The Hanbury Place Mosque. Friday prayers.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Allenby, shaking her head. She turned to Ryan. ‘Can you show us on a map?’

  ‘Already doing it,’ Ryan muttered. He hit a few more keys then turned his laptop so they could all see it. ‘OK, here’s the mosque.’ He drew a line with his finger. ‘And here’s St Saviour’s. We don’t know where the other carriers started from, but it must be relatively near the church.’ He drew another line, a circle this time, with St Saviour’s in the centre and touching the mosque at the bottom. ‘So they’re probably somewhere in this zone.’

  ‘Fuck. There must be a dozen mosques in that area,’ Alex said.

  Ryan tapped the keys. ‘Not a bad guess. Fifteen.’

  Alex put her head in her hands. ‘Jesus.’

  They all looked at the circle on the map, hoping something – anything – would jump out at them.

  Ryan pointed at the line from St Saviour’s to the Hanbury Place Mosque. ‘Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  Mrs Allenby squinted at the map. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s due south.’

  Mrs Allenby looked at him. ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, it could be coincidence. He could have chosen that target for any number of reasons, I suppose, I mean—’

  ‘Come on, spit it out, man.’

  ‘What if it’s a cross?’

  Ryan started drawing more lines on the map. ‘Look. You see? If you draw a line north–south through St Saviour’s, and another east–west, you get a cross. It makes perfect sense if Martindale really wants to make a statement. The other targets should then be north, west and east of the church. And –’ he drew another, slightly smaller circle within the first so they formed a doughnut shape – ‘within this area here.’

  ‘Right,’ Mrs Allenby said. ‘How many potential targets does that give us?’

  They waited while Ryan tapped in the new parameters. ‘To the east, there’s one on Truman Street. To the north, there’s . . . It looks like there’s two possible – no, wait, this one’s been shut down. OK, so just one, on Buxton Grove.’

  Mrs Allenby turned to Alex. ‘While we’re still looking, get on to Logan – tell him about Truman Street. And does anyone know where the hell Mr Woodburn has got to?’

  56

  Five minutes had gone by. Five minutes of pacing up and down like a lunatic, checking my phone hadn’t gone dead, taking my earbuds out and putting them back in.

  ‘Logan, it’s Alex.’

  ‘Thank Christ. What’s going on?’

  ‘We reckon we’ve identified two of the other targets. Ryan’s working on the last one. There’s no way to be sure, but we think he’s chosen the locations so they—’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck why he’s chosen them – just fucking tell me.’

  ‘Truman Street. Due east of the church.’

  ‘I k
now where it is.’

  ‘How long will it take you to get there?’

  ‘I’ll find out, won’t I,’ I said, taking off at a brisk jog. I could feel the canister as I ran. ‘What about the others?’

  ‘I’m getting on the bike now. I’ll take the one north of the church. Any idea what I’m looking for?’

  ‘They have backpacks. That’s all I can tell you. But with a bit of luck they’ll stand out. They won’t be wearing shalwar kameez. Right, I’m going.’

  ‘One more thing. The fourth one will be to the west of the church. I’ll send the exact location when I have it, but just so you know.’

  ‘OK. Good luck.’

  ‘Yeah . . . you too.’

  I was panting now. I wasn’t even going full-out, but my time in the cell under the church had taken its toll. My lungs were burning, and I was starting to see stars.

  I slowed down a little, until I could see straight again, and tried to take deep, slow breaths.

  Fuck it, Logan, don’t fall apart now.

  I opened the map on my phone and tapped in the location. A maze of backstreets and footpaths winding through the low-rise estates lit up. I memorized the route and put the phone back in my pocket. If the carrier was maintaining normal walking pace like Martindale said, I might have a chance.

  But I’d need to fucking run, not fanny about worrying whether or not I was going to black out. I thought about a quick prayer, just on the off-chance, then decided against it. After all Martindale’s bullshit, I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure whose side the man upstairs was on.

  I put my foot down, pumping my arms to try and develop some sort of rhythm. Jesus, you’d think I’m trying to run up Snowdon. I ran down the middle of the street, then dodged back onto the pavement when a truck turned the corner and started barrelling towards me. Why didn’t I put a fucking watch in the bag along with the phone so I could see how much time I had left? But, then again, what did it matter? All I could do was try and find the guy as quickly as I could and hope to God Alex and the rest of them could do the same at the other locations.