SIS’s forgers had provided him with bogus work orders to justify his presence, but Brice had no intention of wasting time arguing with some dullard of a woodentop. He had taken the precaution of also demanding something that would get rid of interlopers with no questions asked. ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said the young policeman. ‘Would you mind stepping down?’
Brice jumped to the ground, drawing something from an overall pocket: a Met warrant card and badge. ‘DI Carver, Special Branch,’ he said in a low voice, his smooth elocution replaced by a harsh East End growl. ‘I’m on stakeout, and yer gonna bollocks things up if yer don’t get moving.’
The officer flinched, but held his ground. ‘Uh, sorry, sir,’ he said, peering more closely at the ID, ‘but you do understand that this is a high-security area? I need to—’
‘Course I bloody understand,’ snapped Brice. ‘Why d’yer think I’m ’ere? We got word that some of our bearded brethren might cause trouble today. Me an’ a dozen lads from SO15’ – the codename for the Metropolitan Police’s Counter Terrorism Command – ‘are watching for ’em, but they’re not going to poke their bloody noses out while yer standing ’ere like a streak of glowing piss!’ He jabbed a finger at the cop’s hi-vis vest. ‘All right, sonny, now just nod yer ’ead and piss off. You got a problem, report me to yer watch commander. Just do it from somewhere else.’
The policeman was briefly caught between anger and deference. The latter won out; a bad word from somebody in one of the Met’s special operations units could be disastrous to a junior officer’s career aspirations. ‘Okay, sir. Sorry to bother you. I’ll be on patrol if you need me.’
‘Just make sure nobody else wastes my time,’ said Brice, returning to the pickup bed. ‘What, yer still ’ere? Jesus Christ, go!’
The cop hurriedly strode away. The spy glared after him, then returned to his task.
Another look at the clock tower. Less than ten minutes before noon.
Ten minutes before Britain changed for ever.
Nina cringed as a jaywalker belatedly ran for the pavement ahead of her. ‘What the hell is with people in this goddamn city?’ she shouted to Roy. ‘Big red thing coming straight at them, and they just stare at it!’
‘They probably can’t believe a London bus is doing more than five miles per hour,’ he replied. Then: ‘Okay, we’re nearly here! Just past these buildings, on the right.’
Beyond a cluster of pricey apartment blocks was what Nina first took as parkland before the building at its heart came into view. The new US embassy in London was a glittering glass cube surrounded by open green space. It was not freely accessible, though; the complex stood atop a small rise, walls spiralling up around it as effectively as a castle’s battlements. It even had a moat of sorts, the side facing the Thames separated from the park by an artificial lake. Waterfalls gushed over its sheer inner edge.
There was a pedestrian entrance down a side road on the right, but she would not be able simply to walk in. A pair of the inevitable black Range Rovers waited on each leg of the junction ahead.
But she couldn’t stop, not now. She had to get the evidence against Brice and his co-conspirators to the ambassador. But how?
Her only option, insane though it was, struck her. ‘Roy!’ she yelled. ‘Can you swim?’
‘Yah, of course, but why—’
Keeping her foot hard on the accelerator, she spun the wheel to aim the ravaged Routemaster between the two Range Rovers. ‘’Cause we’re taking a dip!’
The Removal Men had expected her either to stop or try to round their blockade, crouching behind their vehicles to cover both roads. They hurriedly changed positions and opened fire, but by then the bus had already rushed between them—
It leapt over the kerb, churning up turf as it skidded through the park. People fled, screaming. The remaining windows on the bottom deck exploded under the hail of gunfire.
Splinters stabbed into Nina’s cheek as a bullet blew apart the panelling behind her head. She held course as the grassy ground rose up towards the lake. The embassy loomed beyond it—
She screamed as blood sprayed from her left forearm.
The bullet had not smashed any bones, but her hand was now useless, every flex of the fingers agonising. All she could do was grip the steering wheel harder with her right hand as the bus reached the top of the slope—
And vaulted over its summit.
The Routemaster went airborne as it cleared the lakeside, hurtling across the water . . . and arced down into it.
The impact flung Nina against the steering wheel – then a frothing wave crashed through the broken windscreen, sweeping her from her seat.
The world spun, another lightning bolt of agony shooting through her wounded arm as it struck something in the swirl. An echoing boom rolled through the water as the bus slammed down on the lake’s bottom. More pain as her head smacked against a seat . . . then something large absorbed the next impact.
Roy. The young man had also been swept up by the inrushing water, but overcame panic to thrust himself in front of her. She heard a gasp as she knocked the breath from him – but he quickly recovered, grabbing a handrail and catching her with his other arm.
He lifted her head above the churning flood. ‘The stairs!’ he spluttered, pushing her towards the forward flight. ‘Get up the stairs!’
‘Thanks,’ she gasped, spitting out a mouthful of lake as she found footing. ‘You okay?’
‘Was in the rowing club at uni. Took plenty of unplanned dips!’
Nina staggered up the staircase. The torn hole in the bus’s front gave her a clear view of what lay ahead. The Routemaster was about ten feet short of the embassy’s wall, a paved plaza visible beyond the waterfall flowing over its edge. Alarm bells sounded inside the compound as its staff reacted to the crash.
But the Removal Men were also responding, running towards the lake. The harsh clatter of automatic weapons echoed across the park, the bus taking more hits. Their orders were clearly to stop her from reaching the embassy at any cost – even if that meant gunning her down on the boundary of American territory.
Rounds tore through metal, smacking against seats. Nina ducked fearfully back into the stairwell – but only seconds remained before they reached the lakeside and riddled the entire upper deck with bullets.
She felt her pocket. The flash drive was still there. ‘Roy, get back in the water!’ she cried, hoping it would offer him some protection – then she sprang up and ran for the front of the bus.
New pain stabbed through her wounded arm, but she forced herself to ignore it, focused on the gap between the Routemaster and the embassy. A mere ten feet, but she had only a short run-up . . .
She leapt, one foot stamping down on the broken window frame to propel her over the gap—
The top of the wall rushed at her.
Too high. She was falling short.
She threw out her arms—
Her left arm again flared with agony even before she hit the barricade. She slammed against it, the wounded limb flopping uselessly to her side – but managed to hook her right arm over the concrete edge.
The waterfall rolled over her, threatening to tear her loose. Nina choked as the deluge hit her face. She clawed for grip, fingers finding a pipe along the inner wall of the pool above her and clutching it as hard as she could.
Shouts reached her over the hissing rush of water. She struggled to raise her head above it. Figures were running across the plaza towards her.
Men in uniform, rifles at the ready. Marines.
They were not the only armed men she had to worry about. More gunfire erupted from the park, splashes bursting from the falling water around her as bullets struck the wall—
The marines fired back. Clods of earth spat up around the Removal Men as a barrage of automatic fire closed in on them. Outnumbered and outgunned, the British assa
ssins sent a few last rounds at Nina before breaking and running through the trees back to their vehicles.
The firing stopped – but Nina was still in danger. She could feel the pipe buckling under her weight. She tried to scrabble higher, but her feet found no purchase on the smooth, wet wall. And her other arm was useless, pain overcoming her attempts to lift it. She slipped lower, her head dropping back under the relentless waterfall as her handhold tore free—
Someone grabbed her right arm.
She cried out as she was hauled roughly upwards. Two marines had leapt into the watercourse along the wall’s upper edge and seized her. They waded back to the plaza and deposited her unceremoniously on the paving. ‘She’s wounded!’ one shouted, seeing blood spreading across her wet left arm.
Nina coughed, trying to clear her airways. ‘I’m – I’m Nina Wilde,’ she gasped. ‘I’m an American citizen – and I’ve got to see the ambassador! There’s a—’
Before she could say anything more, she was sharply brought to her feet. ‘Get her to detention,’ barked another marine, glaring after the gunmen as their Range Rovers peeled away. ‘The embassy’s been attacked – we need to lock it down and find out what the hell’s going on!’
‘I’m trying to tell you what’s going on!’ Nina protested. ‘I need to talk to the ambassador, right now! Please!’
But her captors refused to listen, picking her up and frogmarching her towards the embassy building.
Where a cell awaited her – one that she was certain she would still be inside at noon.
38
Brice stood back to regard his handiwork. The lead box, still partially hidden beneath the tarp, was now propped up at one end by tools – directly in line with the Elizabeth Tower.
The great clock told him it was almost noon. He took out a smartphone and brought up an app. It soon confirmed that the part of his plan over which he had no direct control was nevertheless going as expected.
The screen showed a live television feed from the House of Commons chamber. As he had hoped, the green benches along each side of the political duelling ground were full.
The MPs of the governing party were on the left, facing the Opposition. Even on a phone, Brice could see the difference in attitude between the two sides. Those in government, while plainly spoiling for a verbal fight to back up their leader, seemed haunted; the look of politicians who knew they could well be not just out of power, but out of a job entirely, before long. The Opposition MPs were more smug, boisterous – eagerly awaiting one last chance to put the boot into their enemies.
That chance would never come. Brice kept watching as Christian Lombard, the Home Secretary, entered and occupied what would normally be the Prime Minister’s place. His appearance prompted mocking boos and catcalls from the Opposition: where was Quentin Hove? Was he too scared to face his critics?
The clock’s opening chimes rang across Parliament Square. At the first strike of Big Ben itself it would be noon, and PMQs would begin. Brice crouched beside the box. It was time.
He pulled back the tarpaulin and lifted off the heavy lid. The Shamir rested inside the casket, the odd greenish stone glinting. Almost immediately, he felt it respond to the daylight, the van seeming to buzz as its vibration was transmitted through the metal. He lifted the ancient weapon to aim it at the clock tower.
Another look at the phone. Lombard was now talking. Even with no sound, Brice knew what he was saying; protocol demanded an explanation for the Prime Minister’s absence. ‘An urgent matter of national security’ would stoke the fires of the conspiracy theorists, but within the Commons itself there would be little comeback other than snide mutterings.
And in a few minutes, nobody would be able to deny the urgency of said matter.
He switched off the phone, then dropped down and started to lay out road cones to block off an area of pavement behind the Transit – both so that he appeared to be working, and also to keep passers-by clear of the invisible beam. He couldn’t afford anyone to raise an alarm, not now.
The rising noise from the Shamir became noticeable, but over the bells and traffic noise, he was sure nobody else would register it.
Until it was too late.
‘Listen to me, listen!’ Nina cried as the marines carried her into the embassy. ‘I’ve got proof of who brought down Flight 180 – and the same people are planning a terror attack on the Houses of Parliament right now!’
Her captors showed no sign of caring. One marine moved ahead to clear the way to a bank of elevators, waving back embassy staff. Nina changed tack, addressing the officials instead. ‘I’ve got the video confession of the man who rescued Philippe Mukobo and killed everyone else on Flight 180!’ she shouted. ‘If you don’t believe me, watch it yourself!’ While the claim drew shocked interest, still nobody attempted to intervene. ‘My name’s Nina Wilde – I saved President Cole’s life at the United Nations five years ago, dammit! I stopped New York from being nuked, I’ve saved the entire goddamn world – more than once! Somebody listen to me!’
The marines reached the elevators. One pushed a call button. Doors immediately opened, the car beyond waiting to carry the struggling redhead into the building’s depths—
‘Wait, wait!’ someone called behind her. ‘Hold on there!’
She desperately turned her head to see a balding middle-aged man carrying a briefcase break from the crowd, holding up his ID badge. ‘Anthony Huygens, State Department. That is Nina Wilde – I recognise her.’ Though Nina generally felt faintly embarrassed about being famous enough to be identified by strangers, this was not one of those times.
‘Sir, this woman violated embassy security and broke in here in the middle of a firefight,’ the marine replied. ‘She’s under arrest, and until I receive word from—’
‘You’re receiving word from me, marine!’ Huygens snapped. ‘We thought Philippe Mukobo was killed on Flight 180. If she’s got evidence that he wasn’t, we have to verify it. And if there’s an imminent terrorist attack on London, then we have to warn the British, right now!’
The marines holding Nina remained still, uncertain whether the official had authority over them. The elevator doors started to close – until she thrust a foot into their path, causing them to retract again. ‘The video’s on a flash drive in my pocket. Please, just look at it, please.’
‘Hold those doors,’ said Huygens. One of the men in the elevator kept them open. ‘I’ve got a laptop with me,’ he continued. ‘If she’s got nothing, then you can take her away. But I have to check.’ There were benches near the lobby’s windows. ‘Bring her over here.’
The marines turned to the most senior of their number, who looked irate, but nodded. They brought Nina to a bench. ‘Okay,’ Huygens said. ‘Let’s see this video.’
‘Shit,’ Eddie gasped as he heard Big Ben start to strike twelve. He had run through the back streets of Pimlico and Westminster as fast as he could, but even though Chelsea Bridge and the Houses of Parliament were less than a mile and a half apart as the crow flew, the shortest route on the ground was far less direct.
He was also rapidly tiring. At his prime in the SAS, the journey would have been a few minutes shorter and he would have been barely winded by its end. Despite his best efforts to stay in shape, the better part of twenty years had taken their toll.
He emerged from a shortcut through the grounds of Westminster Abbey on to the southern edge of Parliament Square as the bell’s last echoes faded. If Brice was going to attack, he was still sure it would be from here. The Shamir needed to be outdoors with clear line of sight on its target, and every rooftop overlooking Parliament would be under constant observation, while any unusual activity on the Thames would draw immediate attention. From what he had seen in the Congo, he didn’t think that the Shamir had the range to bring down the building from the river’s far side.
That left the square, a busy public pla
ce where the MI6 officer could easily hide amongst the crowd. He looked across the road at the park. Even though it was a cloudy day, there were still lots of people, mostly tourists pointing cameras and phones at the clock tower. His gaze darted between them, searching for the spy.
No sign of him – but his view was repeatedly obscured by buses and vans rounding the square. He had to get closer. He waited for a gap, then ran into the road. A speeding black cab’s brakes screeched, the driver hooting angrily at him. Eddie ignored him, pausing to let another cab go by before dashing for the safety of the far pavement.
Breathing heavily, he surveyed the square. It was busy enough that it would be almost impossible to check everyone . . .
He felt something, a gentle but rising hum that seemed to be coming from all around him.
It wasn’t some reverberation from the bells, or the traffic’s endless rumble. He had heard it before. The Shamir, building up power. Brice was here. And he was getting ready to strike.
But where?
Eddie was about to charge into the crowd – then caught himself. He couldn’t just run around at random and hope to spot the rogue agent. He had to figure out Brice’s plan, think like him. Where was the best place to put the Shamir, and how would he avoid notice?
A flicker of bright colour drew his attention. A litter collector in a hi-vis vest, pushing his trolley along the pavement. It wasn’t Brice – but the man still gave him the answer. The best place to hide was in plain sight, as if he belonged there. He would look like some official, carrying out a job . . .
Hi-vis yellow, orange and green were now his target. Eddie hurriedly scanned the park for the giveaway colours. The closest was a policeman on the square’s west side, and he saw other cops dotted around its periphery. Was Brice disguised as one?
No. Too much risk of being approached by a real officer who couldn’t identify the newcomer, and he would hardly be able to carry the Shamir under his arm while pretending to patrol . . .
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