‘And you think he’s set them on you?’ He sounded deliberately sceptical; he wanted McCreath to become unsettled, even angry. It would lead to the truth that much quicker.
McCreath blinked. ‘Of course. I bugged out, didn’t I? Left his cosy hotel and fancy meals and legged it back here. It was saying I didn’t want to play his game or take his money. He wouldn’t like that. If they can’t get me in here, they’ll wait for me to go out . . . just like they did Pike.’
Harry ignored that for the moment; he wanted to get McCreath talking about the Protectory. ‘Tell me about Deakin; how you met him.’
‘Will it help my court martial?’
‘I can’t guarantee that, but your cooperation will certainly be taken into account. Did he order Neville Pike killed?’
‘He’s the only one who could have. I’m not sure he’s all there, to be honest; there’s something behind his eyes, know what I mean? I saw the same thing in some of the prisoners taken in Afghanistan, even in some of the subcontractors out there. Like they’re living on a hair-trigger, waiting to blow. But he’s different when he’s talking; then he’s all good ideas and friendly, just like you want to hear when you’re on the run. Then, when I heard about Pike, I just . . . I decided it wasn’t for me.’ He shifted in his seat as if embarrassed to admit it. A faint burst of shouting sounded somewhere in the building, muffled and distant. A door slammed followed by another, and the overhead lights flickered.
Harry glanced at the constables, but they hadn’t reacted. In a busy station like this, shouting was the norm, doors slamming a sound everyone learned to live with day and night.
‘How did you get in touch with him in the first place?’
‘I didn’t.’ McCreath’s breathing rate had increased and his fingers were tapping out a rapid staccato rhythm on the table surface. His nails, Harry noted, were bitten down to the quick. ‘I was bunking with an ex-army mate in Antwerp after leaving Selly Oak.’
‘That’s where you had treatment?’
‘Yes. The place got on my wick . . . people coming and going like it was a bloody theme park . . . charity visitors treating us like a bunch of mental cases, doing their good fucking works . . . It finally got to me when one woman spoke louder to me because I’d been wounded – can you believe that? She thought because someone mentioned trauma I was a bleeding cabbage case. Then there were the therapists and psych people, all telling us how we’d soon recover and how we had to stay positive, how it’d be all right in the end and look at how some amputees were even trekking to the North frigging Pole and climbing mountains on their false fucking legs!’
As McCreath started breathing faster, gradually becoming more and more worked up, one of the constables shifted his feet and prepared to step forward. But Harry held up a hand. He had to see where this would lead. McCreath was venting his frustration. If they shut him down now, he might never tell them what they needed to know.
McCreath gradually regained control. He took a deep breath, placing his hands flat on the table and shaking his head. Then he continued in a calmer voice. ‘I’d had enough so I got up and walked out. When I got to Antwerp, my mate said he knew someone who could help me; someone he said was part of a group who helped out guys like me. I thought he was taking the piss. Next thing I know, this guy Deakin’s at the door, saying he was from the Protectory, like it should mean something. I mean, it sounded like some sort of loony religious order to me. I nearly told him to piss off, thinking what could a bunch of bible bashers do to help me?’ His head came up as a dull concussion sounded. ‘What was that?’ This time the two guards looked at each other.
Harry said to them, ‘Can you call the desk from here?’
The ginger-haired constable shook his head. ‘From out in the corridor if we have to. Why?’
Harry stood up and signalled McCreath to get to his feet. ‘I think we’ve got company. That was a stun grenade. The station’s under attack.’
‘What?’ The second officer laughed. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid. This is Brixton nick—’
‘He’s right.’ It was the ginger guard. ‘I’ve heard them before . . . used them, too. Recognize the sound.’
Suddenly McCreath was coming round the table and nodding animatedly, his face draining of colour. ‘He’s right. It’s Zubac and Ganic. They’ve come for me. They’ll kill anyone who gets in their way.’
‘Where does this corridor lead?’ Harry asked, pointing away from the noise.
‘To some stairs, a storage room and more cells. But we can’t leave here.’
‘You want to stay, be my guest.’ Harry walked over and kicked the door. It shook in the frame. Solid but not solid enough to withstand grenades or bullets. ‘They’ll come through that like cheese and they won’t be using stun grenades. We need to get out of here. Now.’
‘There are the cells,’ said the second guard. ‘The doors are reinforced with rolled steel. We’d be safe in there.’
But his colleague shook his head. ‘No way. They’d blast right through them, too. Anyway, we’d be trapped.’
The second guard opened the door and peered out. Two bangs sounded, muffled but closer, followed by another concussion, this one causing a small vibration through the walls. ‘There’s people running,’ he reported. ‘I can see them through the security door at the end.’ He looked pale but calm. ‘Follow me, yeah?’
Harry grabbed McCreath by the arm and hustled him out, and pushed him along the corridor in the wake of the two guards. More bangs and some screaming this time. As they reached a junction in the corridor and the constables disappeared, he felt a ripple effect in the air followed by a blast of sound, and a sliver of wood flew past him and bounced along the floor.
THIRTY-TWO
‘Room B16!’ the gate security guard had screamed, his shoulder shattered by a round from Ganic’s Ruger. ‘Down the stairs and along the corridor . . . to the right . . . with a man named Tate.’
Ganic pulled the safety ring on one of the M84 stun grenades and paused, glancing at Zubac. The time delay fuse on the device was a maximum of two seconds once the safety lever was released. Enough time to step back and avoid the worst of the blast, but too short for any hero to scoop up the grenade and throw it back. He nodded at the nearest camera, then mouthed the words, ‘What about the cameras?’ Then he flicked the safety ring away and hurled the M84 round the corner of the corridor, ducking back before it could explode.
‘Forget them.’ Zubac mouthed back with a grin, checking his weapon. ‘So we get famous . . . our faces on television. You don’t like that?’
If Ganic understood the words, his reply was drowned out as the grenade’s blast filled the corridor, the sound wave snapping around the walls and intensified by the confined space. The vivid flash of light lit the air, adding to the confusion, then it was gone. The sound of tinkling glass in the background was almost musical but it was doubtful that any of the policemen or support staff in the corridor was able to appreciate it.
Zubac stepped wide round the corner, his weapon held two-handed, knees slightly bent. Two officers were on their knees, hugging their ears in agony and confusion. Further along, a short, plump woman in a white shirt and dark skirt was sitting inelegantly against one wall, mouth open in shock, eyes closed tight.
One of the officers looked up and saw Zubac. His eyes fastened in disbelief on the Ruger. Coughing, he reached instinctively for his waist. Zubac shot him in the throat.
The officer fell back, a telescopic baton rolling away from his hand.
Zubac shook his head at the man’s idiotic courage, and the two attackers advanced along the corridor, Ganic clubbing the second officer as he passed, ignoring the woman and hurling another M84 as two shapes appeared out of a door at the end. He and Zubac stepped inside an open doorway until the blast came. It breached a soft door, hurling fragments of glass and pieces of softwood through the air. They stepped out and moved on.
An alarm began wailing followed by a volley of shouting as the Bosn
ians’ progress was tracked along the lower floor. Footsteps pounded on the floor above, filling the stairwell until a commanding voice ordered them back.
Ganic saw movement up ahead. He fired twice to keep any heads down, then turned to his friend as Zubac slapped him on the shoulder and made a pistol sign with his fist and forefinger. The meaning was clear.
So far they had dealt with unarmed opposition only. But the ones with guns would soon be here, which meant they hadn’t got long to find their target.
Ganic puffed out his lips and loaded a fresh clip of ammunition. His meaning was clear: even if they came with their weapons, they would die.
THIRTY-THREE
‘Keep going!’ Harry shouted, and pushed McCreath towards the turn in the corridor. Somehow the Bosnians had found out where the prisoner was being held and had worked their way down into a secure part of the station. How they’d done it was appalling, but it didn’t matter right now; they were far too close. He pushed on, feeling an itch of vulnerability in the middle of his back, and wished he was armed. No bloody good being carded, he told himself, if he wasn’t actually carrying a gun. Should have learned by now that being in London didn’t guarantee safety. Not that he would have been allowed to bring a weapon down here, anyway, authorized or not.
A shot echoed down the corridor and ricocheted after them, buzzing past Harry’s head and gouging a long, ugly chunk out of the plaster on one side. Ahead of him the two constables had reached a door with wire-reinforced glass, holding it open for Harry and McCreath. In the background, footsteps pounded after them. The pursuers were moving with frightening speed, bulldozing their way through the station and disposing of any resistance with terrifying ease, working on the knowledge that they had no friends here, only enemies.
They weren’t going to make it. Then he and McCreath were through and into another corridor, and the door was being slammed behind them.
‘Keep going!’ ginger hair shouted. ‘I’ll lock this.’
Harry turned. ‘No, don’t! The door won’t stop it—!’ But he was too late. A shot echoed beyond the door, and a large hole appeared in the fabric, just below the glass. Slivers of wood and flecks of paint flew in all directions and the constable was lifted off his feet and hurled to one side, a spray of blood flicking across the wall behind him.
‘Go!’ Harry shouted at McCreath. ‘Keep going!’ He grabbed the other constable who was staring at his colleague with an expression of dumb disbelief and pulled him away. ‘You can’t help him – go!’
They ran, passing several closed doors with no lights showing and no sign of anyone inside, and arrived at a flight of stairs going up. An open door revealed a storage cupboard. Harry glanced inside. No good as a hiding place; it was crammed with fire extinguishers, mostly battered and with a large handwritten sticker warning that they were not to be used.
‘They’re due to go back,’ the constable explained, his voice neutral, breathless. He was on automatic pilot, Harry recognized, retreating in on himself and looking for the familiar and everyday. A safe place to go.
‘Where do the stairs lead?’
‘What?’ He blinked.
‘The stairs.’ Harry slapped his arm, shaking him out of his daze.
‘To the delivery bay and back yard.’ The constable shook his head, his expression clearing. ‘Wait . . . it’s open out there . . . There’s nowhere to run.’
‘Gates?’
‘Locked and controlled from inside the building. There’s a motion detector for going out, but it’d take too long.’
They heard shouting coming closer. A series of bangs; but not explosions. Doors being kicked open and rooms being checked. It would slow the attackers down but not for long.
‘Better than staying here,’ Harry muttered, and on impulse, grabbed one of the fire extinguishers. He followed the other two men up the stairs, thigh muscles burning with the effort and the adrenalin rush. Their footsteps were loud in the open space, echoing back down and telling their pursuers precisely where they were—
How did they know? In all this building, how could they tell exactly where McCreath was?
They arrived at the top and the constable gestured to a fire door with a security bar. ‘This is it. It locks automatically behind us. We’d have to use the entry-phone system to have the guard open up the staff entrance.’ He stared at the extinguisher. ‘What are you doing with that?’
‘Delaying tactic. Open the door. And you,’ he looked at McCreath, ‘stay close and don’t try running.’
But McCreath was one step ahead of him. He said, ‘Tie the handles together, otherwise it’ll never stay on long enough.’ He shrugged. ‘Used to let them off at school when I was a kid.’
‘Here.’ The constable ripped off his tie and handed it to McCreath, then turned and slammed the security bar down and pushed open the door. Harry pulled the safety pin on the extinguisher and placed the canister close to the top step, with the nozzle hanging over the stairs. McCreath waited for him to squeeze the levers together, then wrapped the tie around them and knotted it firmly. The contents began to gush out, filling the air in the stairwell with a choking spray of white powder that hung like a mist, completely shielding them from the men below.
Then they were sprinting across the open yard to the door where the gunmen had made their entry. It was a close call; as they ducked inside, bullets tore into the door-jamb, ripping off great slivers of wood. Harry turned and saw a CCTV monitor showing two men running diagonally across the open space, one of them pausing to slap a hand against a motion-detector panel to open the automatic gates. Seconds later, they were out into the street and gone.
THIRTY-FOUR
‘How did they get weapons? It’s not as if they could pick them up at the nearest branch of bloody Tesco!’ Ballatyne was raging at the ease with which the attackers had entered the country, equipped themselves and stormed the secure structure of a police station, taking it apart as if it were no more than a training exercise.
Harry said nothing; Ballatyne knew as well as he did that determined men with connections had access to weapons and the people to supply them. They wouldn’t have risked bringing guns and stun grenades in on the boat, but with a source in London or the south-east, one phone call was all it would have taken to have someone waiting to meet them with a full kit as soon as they landed.
Ballatyne turned as a sergeant walked towards them down the corridor. His shirt was bloody and he looked grey with shock. In the background, armed officers from the firearms support unit were controlling the entrances and turning away members of the public and press, while paramedics hurried about their business and senior officers stood around looking grave. None of these, Harry noted, came anywhere near Ballatyne, but they were clearly aware of his presence and constantly throwing nervous looks his way. Ballatyne’s minder stood waiting, not bothering to hide the sidearm he was wearing and somehow aloof from all the activity. ‘What’s the damage?’ Ballatyne asked.
The sergeant stopped. ‘Two of my men dead, five wounded, one PCSO critical. It’s a bloody nightmare.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m ex-army and I’ve never seen anything like it. It was textbook stuff: in, assault, pull back and out again, all inside four minutes. They must have been ex-military . . . Special Forces or commandos. We didn’t get so much as a bloody touch.’
The timing had seemed a lot longer to Harry, but he knew the man was right. ‘How’s the guard on the rear door?’ When he, McCreath and the other constable had run out of the fire door and approached the rear entrance, they’d found the door open and the security guard on the floor in a pool of blood.
‘He’ll live. He was lucky, though.’ His face twisted in disbelief. ‘He says two men on foot came to the back gate and showed what looked like an MOD badge on the security camera. They said they were here to assist with the interview of Staff Sergeant McCreath. There was no reason to question it, so he let them in to check further. As soon as they got inside, they kicked off. The guard took a bullet in
the shoulder before opening the inner doors.’
‘Can’t he tell a foreign accent when he hears one?’ Ballatyne grated.
The sergeant gazed back at him, undaunted by Ballatyne’s position or the credentials he’d shown on arrival. ‘You spooks bother to spend a little time around here and you’ll hear every accent under the sun – and I’m not talking about outsiders. We get all sorts; foreign cops on liaison, police delegations from wherever, security representatives from every country you can name.’ He sighed and added quietly, ‘What we don’t get is a pair of fucking headcases treating the place like a kill zone. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got people who need my help.’ He turned and marched away without waiting for a reply.
Ballatyne let him go, his anger subsiding, and looked at Harry with a wry expression. ‘Me and my big mouth. He’s right, of course. What’s your take on all this?’ He had come south of the river in response to the full city-wide alert to a station under attack, knowing that it could only be for one reason: to silence McCreath.
‘Very simple. He met with Deakin, but backed out before going through with it, so Deakin and his buddies sent the Bosnians after him to teach him a lesson. It’s what they do.’
Ballatyne nodded. ‘And I bet the guns have already been dumped – or passed on.’
‘What I’d like to know,’ said Harry, ‘is how they located McCreath so quickly inside the building. They knew exactly where to go.’
‘I’m hoping we’ll have the answer to that shortly.’ As Ballatyne spoke, a thin, grey-haired man in plain clothes arrived and nodded to him.
‘This is a bad business,’ said the newcomer.
Ballatyne made introductions. ‘Chris Paynter, Harry Tate. Chris works with SO15, advising on surveillance techniques. I asked him to pop down and tell us what he thinks.’
Harry shook the newcomer’s hand. He’d worked with SO15, the Met Police surveillance unit, many times, and could guess why this man was here. For all his raging at people, Ballatyne had been cool-headed enough to call for expert help when he needed it.
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