by Greg Barron
‘OK, give me the background.’
While PJ talks they head north past the Shrubbery to Croydon then over the bridge into Belgravia. Marika’s flat is in charming Eccleston Square, and PJ turns down the narrow lane, pulling to a stop against the kerb. Forced to move out once after it had been broken into and vandalised by the same group they are now chasing, Marika had insisted on returning. It was the first place of her own, and PJ knows how much she loves it.
Eccleston Square Gardens are beautiful in any season, but in summer they are sublime, the plane trees with their full foliage, and the buildings so gloriously similar, the effect is almost palatial. Marika’s eyes are glowing as she snaps her card under the lock and the door clicks open.
They walk inside, suddenly silent. ‘I’d better have a quick shower,’ she says.
‘Sure, I’ll make us a coffee — or are you hungry?’
‘Not at all, I ate like a pig the whole way over. I’m sure the air crew are out looking for a new pallet of chocolate as we speak.’
PJ knows her kitchen well enough by now, situated on the lowest of three small levels, the window looking out on a minute backyard. By the time the stovetop espresso machine has filled the flat with the scent of roasted Arabica beans, Marika is out, fully dressed.
Back up in the lounge room, she takes her mug, places it on the coffee table and sits on the cushions beside him. She has tied her hair back.
‘Thanks for coming to get me.’
PJ recognises the sentence as the kind of thing people say when they’re holding back something more vital. ‘Not a problem.’
At first he tries to look away. Knows what will happen.
Surprisingly, she leans up and kisses him. Her lips don’t open far. It is a beginning. A declaration of intention. When she draws back PJ finds that his heartbeat is faster than after a ten-k run.
‘Wow,’ he says.
‘I could have died up there yesterday,’ she says. ‘Tonight it might be you. We don’t have the luxury of time. When this is over, I’m not going to hold back any more.’
PJ stares at the mantelpiece with the mirror, framed in brass, above it.
Marika squeezes his hand. ‘Say something, PJ.’
Still he stares.
‘Bloody hell, PJ, if you don’t talk to me right now I’m going to …’
‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, his voice thick. ‘I need to tell you something, Marika. I’m not supposed to, but you deserve to know.’
‘What is it?’
‘I have to go away.’
Marika laughs nervously. ‘You have to go away. Like where?’
‘I can’t tell you. Not yet anyway.’
‘For how long?’
‘I don’t know. A long time.’
‘When is this totally inexplicable event going to happen?’
‘Very soon. Probably within twenty-four hours. I might not even have time to say goodbye.’
Those warm brown eyes are blazing hot now. ‘I made up my mind to give myself to you completely. That’s not something I do lightly, Paisley Johnson. Now you tell me you’re going away, and can’t tell me where?’
‘There are levels beyond us, you know that. I’ve agreed to join them.’
‘You mean deeper levels of intel?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry.’
He watches Marika put her coffee down on the table, then does the same with his. She opens her arms and he goes to her, aware that somehow, this moment is pivotal in his life. His hands run along her back, touching the nub of her vertebrae, the muscles of her deltoids and rhomboids.
‘We’re just bloody hopeless,’ she says into his ear. ‘Nothing works out. I thought about what I was going to say all through that flight. I tried to imagine what you’d say — what you’d think. It was stupid of me anyway.’
PJ places the flat of his hand against the softness of her cheek. ‘Not stupid. Never stupid — but we’re not our own people, are we? We’ve gone beyond that.’
‘I used to believe that everything was simple, like in one of those trashy books I used to read as a teenager. You loved someone and you were meant to be together, after a few twists and turns, of course. In real life it’s not like that, but messy and dirty, and when you get hurt, sometimes you stay hurt forever.’
‘I won’t go, if you ask me not to.’
‘I won’t hold you back, because you’ll always resent me for it, somewhere deep inside you’ll wish you’d gone.’
They hug again, for a long time, rocking gently together. Marika lets go and stands up, walks to a box of tissues on the bench. She blows her nose then turns to face him. ‘Finish your coffee and we’d better get going.’
FORTY-EIGHT
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2100
At Wattisham, they pass through the main gates, and find that the 2CG contingent has co-opted a barracks room. The floor is of dull boards, the ceiling exposed wooden beams with a corrugated-iron roof. The walls are covered with RAF posters advertising everything from PT to the importance of personal hygiene.
The group stands back and claps as Marika enters the room, only Ronnie Booth rolling his eyes.
Marika can’t help a smile. ‘Stop it, everyone, you’re making me embarrassed.’
They come one at a time to clap her on the shoulder. Jay is first, one of the fittest of them all, and EOD bomb disposal trained.
‘Hey, Jay. Good to see you.’
‘Yeah, nice work in Sydney, ’Rika.’
Kisira, up next, says, ‘Nice to see you, Marika.’
‘You too. How’re things going with Jorge?’
Kisira smiles, holds her hand out and waggles it to indicate lukewarm enthusiasm. ‘Not too bad. He took me out for Indian last night. Still proving himself though.’
‘Good to hear.’
Kutay, always quiet, comes up next. Marika shakes his hand. ‘All ready to get shot at?’
‘You know me better than that. Anything hostile that gets within a thousand metres of me loses the top of its head.’ Kutay is the team sniper, and his abilities with a Barrett .50 calibre rifle border on the uncanny. His face falls a little. ‘It’s weird that we’re up against a guy we had under lock and key nine months ago. He’s a complete megalomaniac. It pisses me off, actually.’
‘I know, me too.’
Marika leaves PJ with the others, then walks over to Ronnie Booth, still leaning against the wall, chewing gum and regarding her with half-smiling eyes. His battle smock and body armour is off, and he wears fatigue trousers, a black T-shirt with ‘EXODUS’ emblazoned across the front, and a shoulder holster with the butt of a Glock hanging out of it.
‘Hey, Ronnie, how’s it going?’
Ronnie Booth is possibly the most practised of them all in the business of war. Enamoured of his beloved heavy-metal music, distrustful of everyone around him, he can be a hard nut to crack. He and Marika have never really hit it off.
He rolls his eyes. ‘I feel so much fucking safer now that Wonder Woman has arrived.’
Marika finds herself prickling at the sarcasm. She shakes her head, turns and starts to walk away.
‘Hey, Wonder Woman,’ he says softly.
She stops. ‘Yes?’
‘That’s one hell of a trick, you know, lassoing a plane out of the sky. Not many people would try that.’
‘Thanks, Ronnie.’ She turns away, realising that he has just paid her the first compliment of their working relationship.
In full battle kit they squeeze into the briefing room, not just officers and NCOs, but every participant including air assets, so there is scarcely breathing room.
An SAS colonel takes the floor. Head shaved close, lean and hard as the men he leads. There is no humour now. Every detail must be perfect or people will die.
The screen shows a high-resolution display made up of enhanced satellite imagery and additional text.
‘This is the Thames River estuary, and this is the Isra slash Lucky Swan, right here. She is 45.6 metr
es in length and 10.9 metres across the beam. She draws 3.2 metres of water and is powered by two 720-horsepower Caterpillar diesels, capable of pushing her along at fifteen or so knots.’
The image changes to a series of floor and deck plans. ‘We got these from the marine architects. We expect most of the personnel onboard to be in the aft section, where the accommodation and control areas are. That’s where we will concentrate our attack.
‘We’ll hit them at 2300 precisely, giving us enough time to get all our forces in position. The air assets will be six Lynx Wildcat choppers, backed up by four Apache gunships. Gunship call signs will be Brown Dog, Black Dog, Yellow Dog and White Dog. Troop carriers will be Wildcat One, Two, Three and so on.
‘At 2250 a Special Boat Service team …’ the colonel nods towards a small contingent of men in black to one side of the room, ‘… will board the Isra covertly and move to the ship’s engine room. At 2259 they will shut down power generation systems, leaving the deck in darkness.
‘We’ve arranged for a fireworks display at Southend around the same time as the attack in case the public hear noises and see flashes.’
‘At 2300 precisely …’
Marika turns to look at PJ. His face has that dreamy expression, as if he is already far away.
After the briefing they have a little under an hour before boarding the choppers. Marika and PJ walk outside together. They can see the silhouette of the machines against the glow of London’s lights, maintenance crews wheeling munitions on trolleys, mechanics performing last-minute checks.
‘Are you sure you want this, PJ?’
He turns to her, and shakes his head. ‘It wasn’t an easy decision.’
‘You really want to be a ghost, PJ? You want to be one of those people with no family, nothing to love, nothing to hold onto, living in hotel rooms, safe houses and boarding houses in God only knows what country?’
‘Someone has to make sacrifices. Mine will be to leave everything behind.’
‘Including me.’
PJ’s eyes glisten in the darkness. His voice is a whisper. ‘I’m sorry.’
FORTY-NINE
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2300
Eddie’s flat is in the suburb of Gants Hill, just a short walk from the tube station. The main room has a lounge and a dining table, with a small kitchen in one corner. The bedroom is entirely separate, a sliding door leading to a poky bathroom with shower and bath.
Soon, he will drive to the restaurant and pick up the stash of guns and ammunition. Now, however, burning with impatience, he sits at one end of a pine dining table, laptop open. Occasionally his eyes flick towards his father’s picture on the bookcase, posing in the pool room of the Lord Chelmsford with his beloved cue.
Beside it is a smaller print of Moseley, the fascist leader of the 1930s, staring out with pride and arrogance. Below are four hardback books, battered from many packings. Mein Kampf, of course, Dr Alvin Johnson’s translation, which does not have the shameful and disparaging comments such as are found in the introductions to some other versions. Then the John Birch Society’s Blue Book. Beside it sits Treason: Liberal Treachery from the Cold War to the War on Terrorism by Ann Coulter. To the left of these titles is a King James Bible.
Eddie chain-smokes cigarettes, and is so engrossed in what he is doing that he misses the ashtray altogether. Ash spills over the tabletop, and a stream of smoke rises from a butt that he did not extinguish completely.
The computer screen is filled with forum posts. The author names include GodsWordisLaw, WhitePOWER, and Eddie’s own moniker, WildforJustice. He reads through the posts one at a time, replying where necessary, encouraging, explaining.
Why do they have to come here and dirty up our neiborhood?!? Before the muslims and siks came all my mates had jobs and now theres no work, and there women wear those black sheets over there heads … now they are trying to wipe us all out …
Eddie reads it, considers, takes a few puffs of his cigarette, then writes: ‘Tonight is our chance for revenge, JoelK23. These people have destroyed their own countries with their violence and hatred, and now they want to do the same here. Our weak government just lets them come. Tonight we unite people who want to stop this shit from happening and are prepared to fight for their country. Thanks again. WildforJustice, Moderator.’
Eddie leans back. He knows that ninety per cent of people who post on the forum never come back. Ten per cent return, and of those, about half might be groomed into genuine activism. These are the ones he seeks out — guides into the fold. Sorts them into fighters and those with leadership potential. The latter are the most sought after — can be sent back out there to recruit their own muscle — youths who like trouble. The Crusaders have pursued an extremely effective campaign in the last twelve months or so, particularly through right-wing media. They are beginning to turn even the most even-minded Britishers against immigration. Eddie can field five hundred men into just about any suburb with a few hours’ notice. Tonight it will be a hundred times that number.
He moves onto the next post:
Yesterday someone posted something on Facebook that was from the Koran. It was all about saying how they have to like, kill all unbelievers like us Christians. Can you believe we let these people into our country? We must be soft in the head when no one will be safe, not even our kids on the streets. I was in London in 05 when the bombings happened and I can’t believe that we’re still letting them in. Tonight we have to end this multicultural bull shit forever.
‘Dear JesusHatesIslam. I totally agree with you. The consequences of opening the doors to these fuckers is tantamount to destroying our culture. Do you know that in the three biggest Muslim suburbs of London there are over one hundred Mosques? In Waltham Forest one group declared an Islamic state, ruled by Sharia law, how can they dare when this is our country …’
The next post — a direct message — sends a shiver of delight running up Eddie’s spine. This is a new one he has been grooming for some time. Not just any shitkicker off the street but a professional — someone with a bit of power.
‘WildforJustice, I am ready to act. Ready to take up the challenge to wipe this cancer from our society, my mates are with me. I heard something is up, that the Crusaders are mobilising. Is it too late to join in? Where do we meet tonight?’
Eddie smiles, stubs out his butt, and starts typing.
Just as he finishes and pauses to light a new ciggie, there is a knock on the door. Eddie closes all open tabs on the laptop, and walks over to look through the peephole.
He swings the door open. ‘Jesus, Alex, what are you doing here?’
‘I missed you at work.’
‘Yeah, sorry. I got Paul to cover for me.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘Look, I’m kind of busy …’
‘What’s going on, Eddie?’
‘Nothing, but OK, come in if you want to.’
They sit down at the table. ‘Why are you acting all weird, like?’ Alex asks.
‘I’m not.’
‘Of course you are. Tell me what’s going on, Eddie.’
‘Something big is happening. There’s this group, right, led by some Syrian. They’ve got anthrax in this really fine powder that kills people when they breathe it in, and they’re planning to drop it on London.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘Yeah, I got the word from a guy high up in the Met. He’s one of us.’
‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘At midnight we’re going to march on the streets in retaliation, we’re going to burn every Muslim shop in London to the ground. I want you to be with me.’
Alex’s head shakes slowly. ‘That’s not me, sorry. Hurting people just isn’t my line.’
‘But they’re going to kill us all if we don’t stop them.’
‘From what you’ve said the police are already onto it. Taking the law into your own hands is wrong.’
Eddie goes to the sports bag
and takes out one of the two gas masks he purchased earlier in the day. ‘Here, this is for you. If I send you a text message, put it on, OK? I … don’t want you to get killed.’
‘What about us, Eddie?’
‘What do you mean, us? There’s no us. I’m not queer, Alex. Nothing has ever happened between us, and it never will.’
Alex reaches out and lays his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t you come back to my flat and have a few drinks. Forget all this.’
Eddie uses the flat of his hand to smack Alex’s arm away. ‘Stop it. Come and march with me. Do what a mate does. You and I can be comrades in a glorious struggle.’
‘I feel sorry for you, Eddie. You have so much anger locked up in there. What happened to you?’
‘Get out.’
Alex’s face is almost beautiful in its pain, lips turned down, and eyelids closing momentarily. ‘Are you sure you want me to?’
‘Yes. And don’t come back.’
Eddie lowers his head, staring at the surface of the table. He does not raise it again until Alex has gone.
FIFTY
THAMES ESTUARY, LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 2230
One of the three converted forward cargo holds, used not so many days ago to test the anthrax powder, is now a sealed laboratory. The five cluster drones sit on stands, partially dismantled, while two technicians, protected with PAPR masks and suits, fill them with their payload of light-brown powder. Faizan has all five of the UAVs connected via LAN cable to a laptop, programming a series of GPS waypoints and actions into the user interface.
Badi cannot keep away, watching through the windows, urging them silently on, knowing that they have limited time to release the drones on their new trajectory. Once they are gone the Isra will be redundant. It can sink to the sea floor as far as he cares, its purchase price and refit costs a small price to own a new world.
Badi walks into the cabin, calls the gallery to bring a coffee, then sits at the table with his mug and a small plate of dates. The door to his suite opens. Cassie stands in the gap, her nightdress open enough that he can see her cleavage, her hair hanging in strands. Her voice is thick with sleep: ‘I didn’t hear you come back.’