Javelin - the gripping new thriller from the former commander of Special Branch (John Kerr Book 3)

by Roger Pearce

  At the bottom of the case was a brown leather man bag containing Fin’s bomb, a rectangular plastic takeaway carton with ‘vindaloo’ scrawled on the lid and Semtex explosive packed inside. There was an identical device for Kenny in a plastic Waitrose carrier, but his delivery would require no particular dress code. ‘Usual shit order for you,’ said the Englishman, ignoring Kenny’s nervous look of inquiry as he pointed out the black arming switches cut into the plastic.

  The brothers knew their visitor simply as Bobby, and this morning he was in the same dark grey sweatshirt, stained jeans and steel capped boots he had worn in his workshop on the day he hired them. At the safe house he never stayed longer than twenty minutes and this morning handed over another packet of cocaine as soon as they had rehearsed the morning’s attack to his satisfaction.

  Hatred of the English had been drilled into the brothers since childhood, though they were cautious to conceal this from Bobby, on whom they depended for their survival in London. Muscular, confident and aggressive, their protector acted like he was the goto guy for terrorism in London, though his attitude was confusing, an odd mix of friendship, jocularity and disdain, even on the first Sunday morning when he had driven them across London to reconnoitre the targets. In Belfast Fin had come up against men whose mere presence electrocuted him with fright, drugs enforcers mostly, or gangsters close to the paramilitaries. With Bobby, for all his posturing, it was different. He acted street hard but sounded educated, too clever to be fixing exhausts and changing tyres, reminding Fin of the uppity BBC parasites feeding off the Falls Road in his youth. Like a fight dog chained to a post, the Englishman aroused curiosity, not fear. He talked as if the brothers lived or died through him alone, but Fin suspected a superior force was pressing down on Bobby, too. Perhaps the hotshot transporter of bombs was nothing more than a delivery boy, an insignificant courier just like them. Bobby was an enigma, but the question whether he was Mr Big or cannon fodder never arose because, in Fin’s underworld of drugs and violence, everything came down to raw strength. If the English oddball drove his kid brother too hard, or the deal turned sour and the cocaine stopped coming, Fin would take him out with his bare hands.

  For all the bluster, the brothers were relieved to see Bobby again. Holed up in their basement while the manhunt swirled above them, he was their first human contact in four days. On Monday, after planting their bombs in Victoria, they had crossed Vauxhall Bridge to watch the breaking news at the Angel, a scruffy sixties pub serving a low rent tower block behind Spring Gardens, close to where the Real IRA celebrated the millennium with a mortar attack on MI6’s flashy home base. Four pints of Guinness later, with the Underground at a standstill, they separated and randomly boarded buses at Vauxhall’s terminus, Fin taking the 87 for Aldwych, Kenny the 344 as far as Southwark Bridge. From there they meandered to Holloway and covered the final mile to the safe house on foot, Kenny arriving two hours after his brother, well after dark. Since then they had been lying low, isolated and on edge.

  Leading them down the crumbling steps for the first time, Bobby had described their subterranean safe house as a ‘classy refurb,’ a tag they immediately found to be a wild misrepresentation. On the long haul from derelict hovel to modern apartment the two dark rooms had remained at squalid, with ripped plaster littering the rough wooden floors and lifeless arteries of electrical cable poking from the walls and ceiling, cracks radiating like giant blood vessels across the plaster.

  In the back room a sash window looked onto a dirty, whitewashed wall. To the left was a part constructed kitchen space crowded by builders’ trestles, piles of rubble, a microwave and noisy fridge crammed with ready meals. The only furniture was a pair of black canvas camping chairs, each with a Glock pistol in its cup holder, and a folding table, on which sat the TV. The builders had yet to work on the bathroom, accessed through a sliding door opposite the kitchen, where the shower over the avocado tub dripped constantly but the toilet never flushed.

  The front room, reached through a curved arch, contained the bed, futon and pine table Bobby used to demonstrate their bombs, and large sections of the wall plaster had disintegrated, exposing the brick. Neatly stored opposite the main door, wrapped in plastic and out of sight from the front window, were a brand new oven, bathroom units and bags of shiny fittings. The building spec, dog-eared and stained, lay on top, a stapled batch of A3 sheets depicting an airy, minimalist bachelor pad with designer kitchen, Beluga lights, Hansgrohe taps, wet room and pull down bed.

  Fin glared at the pictures every day. They held out a promise to a stranger while he and Kenny lay trapped in a fog of permanent gloom, with only a single lamp stretching their shadows across the ceiling night and day. They were cold and stir crazy, sustained by shepherds pie and cheap whiskey, dependent on the Englishman for their white powder and LBC for a lifeline to the outside world. The chill aggravated the pain in Kenny’s injured knee, though he bore every hardship in silence; but to Fin, scornful and embittered, the images of luxury were an insult. Peering through the makeshift curtain as Bobby leapt up the steps and disappeared into the street, Fin knew the Englishman was mocking them.

  The headlines filtered from the back room as he shuffled into his suit and bent down to help Kenny with his leg strapping. But as the news sank in, he grinned and threw his kid brother a wink: four days on, explosions at Victoria still trumped beheadings in Syria. He helped Kenny to his feet, slid the bombs aside and cut two celebratory lines of cocaine.

  When they were high and ready, Fin loitered by the front gate, adjusting the Glock in the small of his back before raising a gloved hand to give Kenny the all clear. It was a beautiful autumn morning, with a cloudless sky and a cool breeze blowing directly into their faces as they walked north towards Finsbury Park station. The shoes pinched Fin’s feet and the suit waistband was tight against the pistol, but he relished the freedom, releasing his shoulder from the weight of the bomb every few steps to gulp down lungfuls of clean air. Kenny, in grey hoodie, baggy jeans and the trainers he wore in Belfast, walked more slowly than usual, his injured right leg stiff from lack of exercise. The deterioration seemed to dislodge the pistol, for he kept reaching back with his free hand. Not far from the safe house a ridge of wet leaves and rubbish had settled against a maroon Nissan Micra, and a crude handwritten sign taped to the windscreen, ‘MOT New Tires Tax £899ono,’ reminded Fin they might soon need transport just to get Kenny to the station.

  A middle aged man in dark blue sweatshirt and jeans crossed to their side of the road just as a dog appeared from the line of parked cars, a spaniel or foxhound, scampering on a long lead. Tail wagging fast it came straight for them, woofing around Kenny’s Waitrose bag like a champion Semtex sniffer. Fin’s eyes never left the owner, cautiously feeling for the Glock as he weighed the threat. The man was in his thirties, stringy and shaven-headed, the type Fin had seen handling dogs in airports, with eyes that turned mean as Kenny overreacted by hugging the bomb to his chest. ‘You’re not gonna get far,’ he said, disentangling the dog and jagging his face as he moved away. ‘Chock-a-block with Old Bill.’

  As soon as they were clear Fin gripped Kenny’s arm. ‘What the fuck’s the matter with you? It’s not us they’re after, is it?’

  ‘Should have gone the long way, like Bobby told us.’ Kenny sounded scared as his eyes lasered dead ahead. ‘Shit, what have you got us into?’

  On the approach to Finsbury Park mosque a crowd of about thirty demonstrators were spilling onto the street from the square bordering Seven Sisters Road, expanding in their direction. They were yelling something Fin could not make out, but many were waving home-made placards against the new Terrorism Act. As they cleared a parked removal lorry Fin saw three heavy duty police carriers abandoned haphazardly on the opposite pavement, sealing off a small, mid-terrace Victorian house. In a flash he realised they had stumbled upon a massive police screw up. This was gun-to-the-head persecution versus human rights in an area of high sensitivity, and they were walking strai
ght into it.

  With the gap narrowing, Fin stole a backward glance towards the safe house. A white patrol car had swung across the street in front of the church, blocking any vehicles from entering. Then a black BMW 3 Series swept past them, skidding to a halt between the carriers and demonstrators, its blue light still turning, and Fin knew his brother had been right: they should have taken the quiet path alongside the railway line, as ordered. ‘Too late,’ he murmured, adjusting the bag on his shoulder as they drew level with the target house. ‘We keep moving.’

  The arrival of the BMW provoked the demonstrators, channelling their sporadic shouts into a rhythmic chant that surfed over the brothers and sent pigeons flapping from the rooftops. Then the air jolted with tension as the crew emerged with a stock of crime scene tape to block their path. The passenger was old school, hat pushed back and breathless, with shapeless trousers and a non-regulation gut below his stab proof vest. Head cocked to his radio as he called up reinforcements, he looped the tape around a fence post and began unrolling it across the street.

  The train station was tantalisingly close, just beyond the mosque on the far side of Seven Sisters Road, and Fin kept walking slowly forward. ‘Relax,’ he whispered as they reached the BMW, sensing his brother flinch again. ‘They’re rounding up the usual suspects, pissing everyone off. We go right under their noses.’

  The young BMW driver, hatless, red-faced and belligerent, waved Fin back as he lifted the tape for Kenny. ‘Sterile area. No one enters or leaves,’ he yelled against the clamour, as Fin made a face and shrugged at the illogicality of it all. Then the tape snapped as the protestors surged forward and a forest of arms pulled the brothers to safety.

  Fin clapped a protective arm around his brother’s shoulders. ‘Couple of hours,’ he said as they melted with their bombs into the crowd, ‘and they’ll be rolling it out all over again.’

  At the station they swiped Bobby’s new Oyster cards and just caught the eleven minutes past eleven for the journey to Moorgate, travelling at opposite ends of the quiet front carriage. Fin lay the bomb between his legs but, by the time they rattled into Highbury and Islington, Kenny was protecting the plastic carrier on his lap, his feet resting on the seat opposite until a fragile looking woman with a Daily Mail leant over to rebuke him.

  From the station they headed south, cutting across a neat oval of grass in front of The Globe pub to zigzag through the maze of narrow streets on the other side of London Wall. Losing his bearings for a moment, Fin turned into a dank, rectangular yard, the ancient burial ground for a tiny church half-hidden behind a yew tree. They sat across from a lopsided angel missing a wing, an uneven row of pitted headstones and, tucked snugly against the iron railings, a mobile snack bar. Fin bought two cans of Sprite, checked his position on a tourist guide pinned to the side of the bar and squeezed beside his brother. ‘Not far,’ he murmured, popping the cans. ‘It’s the DLR, okay? Lewisham train.’

  Kenny nodded as he gulped his drink, dribbling a line of Sprite down his cheek. ‘Docklands. Five stops.’ He wiped his chin on his sleeve as the bar owner splashed a bucket of soapy water over the uneven flagstones. ‘Back by tube. Jubilee. You don’t have to keep telling me.’

  They separated near the bottom of Old Jewry, a few paces short of the junction with Cheapside. Watching his brother walk ahead and disappear left towards Bank station, Fin tied the scarf in a Parisian knot and slipped on a pair of tinted glasses with thick plastic frames.

  Walking quickly now, he swung right into Cheapside and immediately found his landmark, the ornate black clock of St May-le-Bow, suspended at right angles to the church tower, its gold hands at a couple of minutes after midday. He crossed the street just beyond Tesco Metro, passing Lloyds Bank and Santander. His target was beyond the church, where the pavement grew busier with chain stores and building societies, all sheltered by a plate glass awning.

  The boutique finance house Dolphin and Drew lay across the street, beyond a bus stop and a bicycle stand, twice the width of the adjoining parfumerie and posh chocolate shop. Fin used a slow moving double decker as cover while making his final security check, then crossed the street and doubled back, shrugging his scarf a little higher and taking a Samsung mobile from his jacket.

  The bank was four storeys high and double-fronted in tinted glass, with huge pots each side of the revolving door, one containing a huge yukka, the other a vine, and more foliage spreading from oversized planters. It transformed the entrance into a minor botanical garden, pleasing to the bank’s élite clients and the perfect screen for a bomber. The door was power assisted and Fin made out he was mid-call, listening intently. Deceptively deep, the entrance hall smelt like the inside of a greenhouse. He stepped aside to avoid a couple making for the exit and stood still, eyes discreetly tracking for security cameras and guards. Head lowered, he adjusted his glasses and made an imaginary point with his hand, rotating to conceal the dangling bag.

  Reception was at least fifteen paces away, to the right of three security barriers monitored by a camera, and the counter left only the top of the receptionist’s head visible. A lone security guard leant there, using one of her phones while an impatient group of visitors waited for their passes.

  Each side of the door was a rectangle of six deep armchairs in soft leather only a shade lighter than Fin’s bag, with coffee tables holding banking journals and the day’s Financial Times. To the left, a couple of thirty-somethings were cosying up with takeaway Starbucks, the man studying a graph on his tablet while the woman used her iPhone, but the other bank of chairs was empty. With the phone still protecting his face, Fin took the chair closest to the greenery and reached for the newspaper, casually laying the bag on the floor. The pink sheets were creased and disordered and he slipped a section from his lap to cover the bag. The guard was still on the phone, obscured by the waiting clients as Fin’s hand traced around the plastic carton and flicked the switch to arm his bomb. Then he slowly stood, melted into a line of workers breaking for lunch and weaved across the street, the Samsung still high against his cheek.

  Cheapside had become busier in the past few minutes, with longer queues at the bus stops and sandwich bars. His escape route was Bow Lane, a narrow thoroughfare that would lead him to the tube at Mansion House. On the corner, twenty metres away from a docking station for Boris bikes, he paused. The clock above the church said seventeen minutes past twelve and the Englishman was exactly where he had said he would be, sitting astride a bike, suited with an open-necked white shirt, trousers tucked into his socks.

  Bobby ignored Fin as he bumped down the kerb towards St Paul’s, but the mobile was already in his hand.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Friday, 14 October, 12.19, SO15 Reserve, New Scotland Yard

  Gemma Riley felt shattered, but not through work. The fallout from any critical incident was nothing new to the civilians in Communications and Registry, experts who fielded the calls, identified subjects of interest and enabled people like John Kerr to do their job. No-one could say if Monday’s bombs were a one-off or the first strike in a long terrorist campaign, so the women and men in Gemma’s line of work learned to pace themselves for a marathon of long hours, short weekends and zero social life.

  This morning, running on empty, she finally accepted it was empathy, not terrorism, that was draining her. Alan Fargo had been working non-stop since the tragedy, out of necessity and to hold his anguish at bay, and needed no persuasion to stay with her. Each night, reaching her flat well after ten, they had rustled up dinner before falling into bed and making love. Two mornings ago she had walked with him to the mortuary at Horseferry Road, minutes from the Yard, holding his hand while he waited to identify the bodies of his mother and Pauline, then trying unsuccessfully to dissuade him from returning to work. Already filled with admiration and compassion, it dawned on Gemma she was nearing a threshold she had never crossed in her entire life.

  She had allowed herself to become intimate with co-workers before, the preca
riously married, usually, or unattached narcissists, but every fling had been poisoned by deceit and betrayal. With Alan Fargo it had been different from the start: he was shorter than the type she normally favoured, plumper, more serious-minded and less self-aware, diligent about his responsibilities at work and home. A year ago she had been thrown off course by his shy kindness and efforts to please, the thrill of previous connections eclipsed by their slow burning romance. Today, at the end of a terrible week, engulfed by grief and sorrow, the realisation she had fallen in love was exhausting.

  A light was blinking on the console. ‘2715, good morning,’ she said for the umpteenth time that day, tensing forward as the male voice at the other end of the line jabbed her memory. This time there was no preamble about Special Branch.

  ‘Bomb at Cheapside. Dolphin. Twenty minutes.’

  In a jumble of reflexes she raised her free hand to silence the talking behind her, scrawled to test her pen, marked the time and tugged at the sleeves of her new lambswool cardigan. ‘Where? Say again?’

  ‘I told you. In the City.’ Same man, the hybrid English-Irish accent again, a mishmash of counterfeit vowels. The pitch was higher than the first time, more stressed and hurried.

  ‘Is that Dolphin as in the fish?’ said Gemma calmly. ‘What is Dolphin? Please don’t hang up. I need a proper address.’

  ‘Twenty minutes. Topaz.’

  She heard wind disturbing the mouthpiece, suggesting the caller was on the move. ‘That’s impossible,’ said Gemma, glimpsing the second hand as she scribbled. ‘What sort of bomb? How many? More than one?’ Silence.

  The instant the line went dead Gemma poked the button for central communications complex and called over her shoulder. ‘Someone get hold of John Kerr now!’ As the operator picked up she was already websearching ‘cheapside dolphin’. She kept her voice to a monotone, enunciating every word with scarcely a pause. ‘Hello this is Gemma in SO15 comms with another Livebait. The threat is to Cheapside, repeat Cheapside in the City, codeword Topaz, same as before so we’re treating as genuine. Caller gives a twenty minute window from one minute ago, that’s twelve nineteen.’ She paused at the operator’s sharp intake of breath. ‘Yes, two-zero minutes, unless it goes off early again. Target is Dolphin. Can you read that back,’ said Gemma, scrolling through the screen as the operator repeated her information. ‘For info I think this must be Dolphin and Drew Investment Bank,’ she continued, ‘number one oh three. North side, west of the church. Hold on… yeah…has to be. I’ll send you anything else I can get. Thank you bye bye.’