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

by Roger Pearce

  Swimming frantically to get clear, he saw the two dinghy sailors wading towards him, to save or remonstrate. Crabbing for the shore with the current, his feet suddenly touched shingle and he scrabbled to get a foothold, waving at his rescuers to stay back. Strength was deserting him as he staggered through the shallows, then strong arms were pulling him to safety. Voice fading, he tried to fight them off, turning to point at the sinking horsebox as the bomb exploded with a muffled thump and a giant plume of water as high as a house, everything in slow motion until the aftershock flattened them and shattered every window within yelling distance.

  Kerr could smell the beach as he turned to look at the river, littered with floating debris. For a few seconds the three of them lay silently in the black mud, Kerr exhausted, his rescuers uncomprehending, the only noise from seagulls and sirens. ‘You alright?’ said the younger of them, eventually. He glanced at his mate, then frowned at the river, its waters languid again, as if he had imagined everything. ‘Anyone else out there?’

  Kerr shook his head. The sludge sucked at his knees as he struggled upright. ‘Can I borrow a phone?’

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Saturday, 22 October, 14.56, The Queen’s Walk

  ‘I’ve known him for ages, from my days in the Registry. What I don’t understand…thing is, you’re his daughter, so tell me, Gabi. Why does he have to act like he’s bloody James Bond?’

  ‘Oh, Dad’s always been on the on the excitable side, ever since I was a kid. When he came to see us in Rome he was always in some sort of scrape with the high-ups. Actually, I think Mum quite liked him being a bit of a rebel, you know, deep down. She would, wouldn’t she?’

  Sipping from their takeaway Americanos, Gabi and Nancy Sergeyev perched on a bench overlooking the Thames, a short stroll from St Thomas’ Hospital. Gabi, returning from Rome to rehearse for a Barbican recital, had caught Melanie’s text the moment she landed and come straight from the airport. She slipped off her rucksack, sat back and rotated her shoulders. ‘Anyway, doing the right thing doesn’t make him a bad bloke, does it?’

  ‘He’s a serial risk-taker,’ said Nancy. They watched a young family negotiate the stone steps from Westminster Bridge, the mother cradling an infant, dad struggling with the buggy and a toddler. Nancy sighed and lifted her face to the weak afternoon sun. ‘And I’ve got two kids who need looking after.’

  ‘Three,’ said Gabi, ‘if you take on Dad.’

  Nancy swirled her coffee and turned to her. ‘Which is why neither of us thinks that’s going to happen.’

  They sat quietly again, taking in the scene. The autumn sun had stayed with them and strengthened, promising a warm afternoon, and Nancy balanced her cup on the ground to search for her sunglasses. From the other end of the bridge towered Big Ben and, to their right, the London Eye. On the opposite bank, a couple of wide tourist craft manoeuvred expertly around Westminster Pier. ‘It’s funny,’ said Gabi, running a hand through her hair. ‘Dad was always threatening to introduce us, but I never thought it would be like this.’

  Nancy let out a harsh laugh, her anxiety leaking anger. ‘With him lying in a hospital bloody bed, you mean? Battered, bruised… drips everywhere and…Christ knows what?’ An amphibious duck boat was labouring upstream against the tide, its bright yellow hull low in the water. ‘Just about says it all, doesn’t it?’

  Nancy had bumped into Gabi at the hospital, both rushing to find Kerr, reassured by Melanie’s texts but scared to take her at her word. He had already been whisked from A and E when they arrived, another great sign, according to Melanie, though Nancy guessed she had arranged this to guard his privacy. Melanie had led them to a private area off the waiting room to tell the story of his heroism while, high on a wall outside, a TV looped footage of the O2 Arena, bomb debris on the river bank and row upon row of shattered windows.

  Summoned on a borrowed mobile, avoiding the masses of police descending on Greenwich, Melanie had reached Kerr through an ecology park at the other end of the footpath. Shoeless, his clothing drenched and heavy with mud, Kerr had scarcely managed to walk up the shingle to the Alfa. Melanie had acted quickly, ramping up the heater and racing him to St Thomas’. By the time Finch’s team reached the O2, Kerr was already in triage, naked beneath a white gown, face battered beneath the smile, only half-joking about discharging himself.

  ‘The point is, Nancy, from what he’s told me, I really think you’re just what he’s been looking for all these years,’ said Gabi.

  ‘After his latest stunt? I don’t think so.’ Nancy stared at her. ‘Gabi, I’m talking about Rome, not this thing today.’

  Gabi paused as the realisation sunk in, then gave a shriek of laughter. ‘Dad and Mum, you mean? You really believe she’s still into him? Nancy, that is so not true.’ Gabi slipped her shades over her forehead. ‘And you think I’m covering for him?’

  Nancy turned away to gaze across the river.

  ‘Well, let me put your mind at rest. Mum just is not interested in the slightest. That’s the honest truth. She has a boyfriend and they go back for ever.’

  ‘How long is that?’

  ‘Nearly three years. In fact…yes. Tell you what,’ she said, rummaging in her rucksack, ‘I’ll prove it.’ She took out a pair of trainers, a hairbrush and and a paperback, Witch Light by Susan Fletcher, then her ten inch tablet in its scuffed maroon case. She switched it on, cussed the low battery and clicked onto a folder. ‘Here you go. Robyn’s birthday, this time last year. She had a do at the flat. Don’t ask me why, it wasn’t a special one, but that’s Mum for you. Everyone totally hammered.’

  ‘You took these?’

  ‘Photographer, bar person and chucker-outer. Keeping Mum in order. I did a sort-through when I got back to London.’ Shifting closer to Nancy, she angled the screen away from the sun. There were the usual shots of partygoers jostling in the soggiorno or crammed into the kitchen around the drink. Robyn, made up in a black, tailored skirt and low cut white blouse, was everywhere, with the images growing lopsided and blurry as the evening went on. ‘As you can see, I was as squiffy as anyone…here we are. Miguel turned up a bit late and from here it’s just the two of them goofing around. You’ll see Mum is totally loved-up.’ In the back pocket of her jeans, Gabi’s mobile rang. ‘They’ve been having sex for ever… and this is my man checking in…straight up, Nancy, you’ve got nothing to worry about. I mean…Hi, babe, hang on…he’s not exactly Dad, is he?’ she whispered, darting away for privacy.

  The photographs were of Robyn with a handsome man in his fifties in a black linen shirt and cotton trousers with flip-flops. A few showed them smoking on the balcony in the twilight, the camera picking out the man’s face more clearly than inside the flat. The effect on Nancy was electric. By the second shot, she had made a tentative connection; by the fifth, a smiling head and shoulders close-up, she was utterly convinced. She scrolled to and fro, startled, her certainty growing with each image, then searched for her own mobile.

  A few paces away she could hear Gabi speaking Italian, using her hand for emphasis as she looked over the river, probably talking about her dad’s bravery. Nancy swung away, shaded the tablet from the sun and grabbed the clearest three images on her mobile. She quickly checked them for quality, her mind buzzing with recovered memories and tangled emotions. Relief, trepidation for Kerr and irrational rage against Robyn fought each other as she drained her coffee, knowing she had to get away. She went up to Gabi and gently touched her arm, holding up her phone. ‘Babysitter. Gotta go,’ she mouthed, then blew a kiss before Gabi could react and hurried for the bridge, dialling even before she mounted the steps.

  •••

  Saturday, 22 October, 15.21, St Thomas’ Hospital

  The duty sister who made sure Kerr behaved himself was from the Seychelles. Her name was Nur, and Melanie knew she had recently kicked out her abusive and unfaithful husband, a homicide detective from Fulham. Having patched up a number of injured surveillance officers over the years, she was o
n first name terms with Melanie and Jack Langton and, because their work was secret, provided special treatment in zero waiting time. She knew about discretion, too: when Melanie walked in with her arm around Kerr’s shoulders, she lifted her head to the breaking news on TV, waited for Melanie’s nod of confirmation, then quietly took over in a flurry of triage, x-rays, blood tests and just-to-be-on-the-safe-side antibiotics. She found a private space for him, too, a plaster room in the fracture clinic crowded with walking frames, moon boots and folded wheelchairs.

  Kerr had banged his shoulder escaping from the horsebox, his head ached from crashing against the windscreen, and every muscle was protesting from the struggle in the river. In the corridor outside he heard Melanie arguing with a pair of aggressive cops pulling rank, then Nur’s voice, calm and authoritative, sending them away until the morning.

  As soon as Melanie left, taking his wet clothes in a plastic sack, Nur threatened to confiscate his BlackBerry unless he agreed to stay overnight for observation. ‘You’re the boss,’ said Kerr, sliding down the bed.

  He began dialling Rich Malone in Washington as soon as Nur was out of earshot, then cancelled it for an incoming from 1830.

  ‘You’re still there?’ said Fargo.

  ‘I survived. Thanks for asking.’

  ‘Mel already told us,’ said Fargo, chuckling. ‘Just to warn you, the Bull is sending two of his finest to ask about a headless torso floating downriver with its wrists cuffed.’

  ‘Hospital already told them to bugger off,’ said Kerr, stretching.

  ‘And the commander’s going to stall everyone until he’s seen you for the welfare bit. John, can you talk?’

  ‘I can listen.’

  ‘You’ll have a missed call there from Polly Graham. You were trying to walk on water at the time, so she rang me instead. Will Tommy’s release you tonight?’

  ‘I’m escaping as soon as Mel brings clothes.’

  ‘So best you hear this now. Polly says she’s found the bombmaker.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Kerr winced as he pushed himself up on the pillows. ‘European? Is he ACI?’

  ‘Not European extremist.’

  Kerr frowned. ‘Irish?’

  ‘Think again.’

  Kerr gingerly stretched forward to peer into the corridor. ‘Al, I’ve got Sister Nur threatening to snatch my phone. Let’s not play twenty questions.’

  ‘The terrorist is one of the good guys.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘One of ours. When you bumped into Polly this morning she told you the recovered device was too perfect, right? Like something out of the engineering manual? Well, now we know why.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Not confirmed yet, so we’re being careful.’

  ‘But she had a fingerprint. A partial.’

  ‘Middle finger of the right hand. Moment she got back to Porton she ran the mark through the computer. It pinged up five points of similarity with the suspect for a bank robbery three years ago. West Mids have a warrant out for him.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Jonathan Tranter, forty-eight years old and ex-military. English, born in Harrogate. Army records have him as Jonny Tranter, a bomb disposal officer in Belfast during the eighties.’

  ‘Right or left-handed?’

  ‘Left. He did three tours, a warrant officer seconded to explosive ordnance, EOD. No regiment shown, which suggests a freelancer.’

  The secrecy immediately swept Kerr a mile downriver to St Katherine’s Docks and Thursday’s meeting with Vanessa Gavron. He found himself in The Headsail again, absorbing Gavron’s account of her editor’s shadowy army career and hatred of the IRA.

  ‘Gavron told me Charles Brandon worked for Fourteen Intell. You think there’s a tie-in here?’

  ‘Quite possible, though Brandon was a few years earlier.’

  ‘So we need to search for linkages. Places they served, lines of command, any possible crossovers.’

  ‘Already on it. The MOD weekend duty officer blanked us till Monday morning but the commander’s sorting it. Once we get access we’ll put everything through the wringer. Anyway, Jonny Tranter is a hero, obviously. The army lost count of the number of bombs he made safe. But also a genius engineer, according to Polly, expert at reconstructing IRA improvised devices for instruction purposes. He was so brilliant the Real IRA tried to make out he planted a couple of devices attributed to them. John, the man becomes a legend to both sides. Then in September 2002 he gets dishonourably discharged. No reason given, but West Mids Counter Terrorism Unit have him as a contact of UFL. That’s “Union First and Last”.’

  ‘Have we heard of them?’

  ‘We’re looking at the blog now.’

  ‘What does Polly say about this?’

  ‘A military bomb disposal officer making devices for terrorists?

  A rogue in her own profession? Well, she’s gutted, isn’t she? People she works alongside at Porton will know of this bandit. If it’s true, there’s going to be hell to pay.’

  ‘So who’s broken the news to the Bull?’

  Fargo left a moment’s silence at the other end of the line. ‘Actually, Polly’s asking us to keep the trace in-house until we’re certain.’

  ‘We’re talking evidence in a live terrorist operation, Al.’

  ‘But Tranter is still a tentative ID. She needs more time.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘She called the lab in Belfast and they still have Tranter’s reconstructed devices in store. Apparently, bomb disposal officers use the same tools and keep them for ever. Luck, superstition, who knows? If Jonny Tranter used the same kit for the Gloucester Road bomb, she’ll find identical markings under the microscope. Striation traces on the screw heads, cuts in the wood, all that stuff. Even the way the Semtex is pressed out.’

  ‘The bombmaker’s signature.’

  ‘Just as she promised.’ Fargo let the silence hang again, waiting for Kerr to respond. ‘It’s just a few hours, John, and the Bull is going to be up to his eyes at the O2.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Okay. But we owe her.’

  Another pause. ‘Let me call Ritchie.’

  Chapter Sixty

  Saturday, 22 October, 15.37, St Thomas’ Hospital

  Before Kerr could try Rich Malone again, a Chinese student nurse dropped by to check his blood pressure and tell him Sister Nur was occupied with a hit and run. ‘Hey, buddy. You beat me to it,’ said Malone without preamble, to a background of engine noise and honking. Kerr wondered why his friend was driving through Washington on a Saturday morning.

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ He could hear young voices, too, and U2’s ‘Beautiful Day’ playing at high volume.

  ‘It’s my weekend with the kids,’ said Malone, ‘but I was gonna call you, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve seen the news?’

  ‘About that guy driving the bomb into the River fucking Thames? You bet,’ said Malone, intemperate as ever. Kerr had never inquired about Malone’s domestic circumstances, but guessed his children would grow up fast. ‘And the nutcase was you, right? No bullshit, John. We’ll just check with your ops room. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Stuck in the ER but everything’s good. Look, I’m calling to thank you, Rich.’

  Malone’s voice veered from the hands-free as he turned to keep the kids in check. ‘For what?’

  ‘The Corona tip.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘The Crown. It was the O2, right? Your source was good and we joined the dots. Eventually.’ Kerr paused as the music dropped, waiting for Malone’s assent. ‘Rich? You know, the Dome? Hey, pal, I’m grateful. And I want any more you can give me.’

  ‘No, that’s not it,’ said Malone.

  Kerr frowned. The kids sounded boisterous but Malone’s voice had dropped a notch. Caught off guard or distracted, he drifted away again, and Kerr strained to hear. ‘You talking to me?’

  ‘I’m en route to the office. M
y pal in the DEA says his source had another crash meet this morning.’

  ‘Goldhawk?’

  ‘Just after you took your dive in the river.’

  ‘Same targets?’

  ‘And place. Sean Brogan with the John Doe in the brothel. No time to wire Goldhawk.’

  ‘Is that because their job here failed?’

  ‘John, you’re not getting this.’

  ‘You want me to come over again?’

  ‘No. That’s not it. Goldhawk says they’re talking about a future attack. I’m telling you Corona hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘Hold on.’ Melanie slipped into the room with a grab bag of clothes as Kerr absorbed the blow. He ripped out his saline drip, rotated his hand for Melanie to turn away and slid from the bed. ‘Future, as in “soon”?’ he said, wriggling into his pants and chinos.

  ‘As in “imminent,” buddy. So you can forget the O2 Arena. Greenwich was a taster for the main event. Which is why I’m dropping the kids at their ma’s and going in for the full spiel.’

  ‘Okay.’ Melanie held the phone as Kerr pulled a blue polo shirt over his head and nudged into his moccasins. ‘Do they know anything about the target?’

  ‘Whatever, my pal’s not sharing on the phone. They’ll be notifying MI5 tonight.’

  ‘But you’ll give me a heads-up, yeah?’

  ‘Soon as I have the readout.’

  ‘Rich, I owe you again.’

  ‘He’s sending the cleaned up recording from the earlier meeting, too. It’s not brilliant. A lot of gaps and cut-outs.’

  ‘But you’ll ping it across?’

  ‘How good’s your Spanish?’ Malone managed a short laugh. ‘It’s secret. You think I’m gonna send it to the frigging ER?’