Holding his breath, he felt the hand of his rescuer guide him towards the doorway. Turning, he headed for the deserted exit that led out on to the piazza.
14
The area outside the grand façade was crowded. In Everard’s experience leaving a theatre was essentially the same after every performance, be it at Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Edinburgh, Paris, Moscow or Madrid. The bigger the venue, the more likely the delays.
Today he was experiencing the worst.
The grand entrance led directly on to Bow Street, a short step from the pavement. Like most in that part of the city, the road was dual lane but narrow, with traffic building up from both directions. On the opposite side of the street, a selection of parking bays were fully occupied, forcing new arrivals to find a space along the nearby kerb, ignoring the double yellow lines. Further along Wellington Street, he saw flashing blue lights, accompanied by the siren of a fire engine. In the distance he heard a similar sound, almost certainly an ambulance.
With the traffic as it was, he guessed they would have a long wait.
The pavement was overcrowded, particularly around the main entrance. The same was true outside the Paul Hamlyn Hall, which adjoined the main theatre to the south-east. Through the glass exterior he could see more people were still coming out, entering the area around the champagne bar down the staircases that connected to the upstairs restaurant or from the concourse outside the auditorium.
The cellist knew he had only two reasonable options. North-west or south-east. North-west would take him to the top of Bow Street, giving him the second choice of continuing on to Endell Street or left to the Underground station at Covent Garden. South-east would take him towards the river, across the Strand and Waterloo Bridge. At the Strand, he would have two further choices, left or right.
Westminster or not Westminster.
He chose right, south-east along Bow Street, his destination the Strand. The sirens were getting louder, the sight of a large fire engine in front of him revving urgently as it sought to approach the opera house. Keeping close to a large crowd, he used a zebra crossing where Bow Street met Russell Street, and continued with the plan. For the first time since he left the building he looked over his shoulder, wondering if either of his dark-haired pursuers had made it out. Sure enough, one of them was on the pavement, scanning the crowds with alert eyes. Their eyes met from across the street; he detected a distinct change in the man’s body language.
Quickly he turned away, upping his pace as he moved through the unsuspecting crowds.
*
Mike had finally made it out. The crowds moved even slower close to the doors; members of staff were shouting at length, requesting calm.
The requests were still falling on deaf ears.
Mike wanted to punch someone. He’d witnessed the culprit detonate the bomb, and, somehow, make it unobserved to the main exit. As a kid, his uncle had once told him of Sod’s Law: if something can go wrong, it will happen – and at the worst possible time. As he neared the doors, the only thing that stood in his way were the people he’d tried to save, pushing and shoving in every direction. As he reached the doorway, the people in front of him stopped, threatening a scrum. He heard Kit shout something in his earpiece about nailing the bastard.
Sod it!
He solved his problem with one swift push. He saw a man and a woman fall to the floor – that’ll learn the idiots for blocking the doorway to a bomb scene! It created a gap wide enough for him to make it outside, along with five other lucky people.
The first thing he noticed was how loud it was. Flashing lights appeared to his right, a fire engine stopped at the crossroads where Jay had earlier dropped him off. People had gathered on the road and were blocking the path to the opera house.
Sod’s Law’s at it again.
The cellist had at least ten seconds on him; more than enough, he feared, for a man who knew what he was doing. Among the masses, individuals were difficult to pick out; the flashing blue lights distorted their features that were already less visible than in daylight. Seeing nothing to his left, he headed right, south-east. Further along the road, the people were more spread out. A second siren was approaching and a police motorcycle appeared alongside the fire engine, its driver choosing the pavement as a better alternative to driving on a gridlocked road. The man lifted his visor and barked orders for people to get out of the way, causing unsuspecting bystanders to lurch in terror.
Mike saw him coming. He grabbed a couple on the kerb, who were unaware of the approaching danger, and held them until the bike had passed. Deciding against waiting for any words of thanks, he burst into a jog towards Russell Street and stopped on reaching the crossroads.
Some of the onlookers had decided enough was enough. A large group, comprised mostly of couples, with clothing ranging from the casual to the opulent, crossed the road before heading in one of two directions. He saw someone matching Everard’s appearance weaving his way in and out of the gaps. Seconds later, his suspicions were confirmed. As Everard turned, he caught sight of him face on, his wary eyes peering back.
Mike stood on the side of the road, suddenly feeling numb. He wanted to move, but his body was frozen, as if the man’s eyes had placed him in a hypnotic trance. The delay lasted seconds, though it felt more like minutes; time no longer seemed to register clearly. On both sides of the road, the crowd continued to move, Everard the only exception; instead he stared back, his large brown eyes giving off an aura of total concentration.
Mike felt a bump from his right, returning him to reality. A Japanese man apologised to him before immediately walking on alongside his girlfriend. A police car passed the crossing, obscuring his view. When it had passed, Everard had disappeared.
Running south-east.
“Hey!”
Mike sprinted over the zebra crossing. The traffic was moving more steadily now; though he missed the police car he only narrowly avoided crashing into a second fire engine, receiving a honk from the driver.
He shouted again at Everard, this time drawing attention from passing bystanders. Some among the crowds came to a stop, allowing him space to burst into a full sprint.
The bump from the Japanese man had done him good. He was thinking again, quickly and sensibly. The best chance he had of stopping him was to make him a target. That meant shouting.
“Hey! Stop that man. You with the beard! Hey!”
The shouts were successful in creating attention, less so in getting anyone to comply. If anything the louder he shouted the more people stepped out of the way.
He re-established visual contact midway along Wellington Street. Most of the outlets were closing while the restaurants were approaching their busy period; a large white van was parked outside a closed bar and grill located in between Café Rouge and the Bella Italia. The pavements were still crowded, but far less than outside the opera house. People walked the street in both directions, some coming in and out of the various wineries and eateries. Their general appearances had changed; he was over three hundred metres from the opera house, far enough, it seemed, to reintegrate with the rest of the city. Despite further arrivals from the emergency services, their approach heralded by the deafening wailings of sirens, the expressions of the people suggested confusion as much as panic. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed there was no evidence of fire from the outside.
Nor did he expect it.
Wellington Street curved south-east, and ended at a pedestrian island close to the Strand. Mike anticipated a left turn as Everard crossed Tavistock Street that passed between the Bella Italia and a coffee house, but the Frenchman continued straight over.
Mike increased his pace, looking both ways as he approached Tavistock Street. One-way signs were prevalent. He chanced crossing with a car turning left off Wellington Street, causing it to skid to a halt; horns blared out indignantly. Back on Wellington Street, the same pattern continued: Everard weaving in and out of approaching bystanders, passing the various establishment
s. A hundred metres on, Mike made out another possible left turn, Exeter Street. Again, Everard made the same move, faking a turn to the left before heading on towards the bottom of Wellington Street. Like the previous turn, the street was one-way, but in the opposite direction; a stationary car waiting to emerge was the only possible deterrent. Safely across, he followed the road as it curved around to its end at an island where punters at the Wellington Pub stood drinking outside under the bright glare of external lights. He saw Everard run in between a bike rack and a red telephone box, heading for the side of the road. He stopped in front of another zebra crossing.
Then he changed direction and headed left.
*
Getting the Foreign Secretary out unseen was easier than Kit had imagined. Taking advantage of the time lag between the mass exodus and convincing the Foreign Secretary to leave the gents, he led the politician around the deserted concourse and through a less crowded part of the opera house to a revolving door that headed out on to the piazza.
He heard the sound of a horn, courtesy of Jay, from a car parked on double yellow lines at the end of Russell Street.
Kit ushered the Foreign Secretary into the back seat and closed the door behind him.
“Right, time to talk. What in God’s name have you got yourself involved in?”
The Foreign Secretary’s facial expression changed in an instant. Entering the car, instead of seeing his wife and preparing to be chauffeured to the Cabinet Office, he found himself seated alongside the well-dressed man with dark-rimmed spectacles and an Asian driver of equally impressive features.
“I beg your pardon!”
“You can dispense with the bullshit, Minister. That kind of thing has never washed with me. I know that you’re involved in tonight’s unfortunate business and I need some answers – now!”
The Foreign Secretary was fuming. “How dare you. When I find out who you are, I assure you you’ll be entering the next stage of your career on a laundry frigate. Do you seriously not know who I am?”
“Sadly, I know exactly who you are, which makes this whole mess all the more ghastly.” He removed his mobile phone, unlocked the keypad and browsed the photo gallery.
“You’ll recognise this man, of course,” Kit said, showing him the image on the screen. As the middle-aged politician’s green eyes took in the scene, Kit could see his expression change from fury to bewilderment. “He’s on our database under many names – I understand you know him best as Everard Payet.” Kit scrolled through the images he’d taken earlier that night, ending with a clear shot of the politician’s face. “You’ll recognise this man, too, I should imagine?”
The Foreign Secretary’s face had reddened considerably. “What the hell have you done with my wife?”
“She’s safe, you can rely on that. Right now, I’d guess one of my colleagues is currently having the same chat with her as we are now. Assuming, of course, she’s recovered from the bad mussels.”
“You arrogant bastard. You’re all the same in MI5, aren’t you? It’s something about the Cambridge/Oxford education that just turns you all into self-absorbed egotistical pricks!” He waved his finger. “I’ll have your tie for this.”
Kit put away his phone and removed his glasses. “Foreign Secretary, we can do this the easy way or the hard. The man with whom I photographed you in conversation, not ten minutes before the explosion that has killed at least a dozen innocent people, was witnessed by no less than two members of my organisation putting his finger to the damn button. He’s currently at large in the city, and the last I saw being pursued at speed by one of my colleagues. Even if I overlook the fact that his name is already known to us and that the man is also wanted in connection with three criminal acts connected to a well-known terrorist gang, he also personally ties you to this attack and those who commanded it.”
He moved closer, their faces inches apart. “Think hard, Minister. Right now you’re looking at life in prison and one heck of a lot of front-page headlines. Who put you up to this?”
“I’m not speaking to anyone before I see my solicitor.”
“A terrorist is currently at large in Britain’s capital city, and for all I know he’s capable of doing the same again. Speak now and further lives might be spared.”
“I told you before, I’m not speaking to anybody before I’ve consulted my solicitor.”
*
Downing Street appeared the same as normal; at least that was the view from the gate. A smartly dressed security guard saluted on inspecting the driver’s ID before allowing him access to Number 10.
Maria left the car and held the door open for the Deputy Prime Minister. She smiled at him humourlessly.
“The PM is waiting for you inside.”
The man smiled awkwardly, his beard thickening as if he’d just been injected with a syringe. As Hughes disappeared behind the rarely opened door, Maria returned to the car.
“The Queen has safely returned to the castle,” she spoke into her headset.
“Well at least that’s something.”
She realised she was speaking to Mr White. “What news on the Bishop?”
“His wife is safely under our protection. We’re still awaiting word on her husband.”
Maria was relieved. “And the Queen’s wife?”
“Nothing. The taxi was black, with an unlit display. Apparently Hansen saw the registration and passed it on to Phil.”
“Was she still there?”
“Negative. Ducked out on reaching Leicester Square.”
“She took the Underground?”
“According to the driver, she was last seen heading in that direction; after giving him a very generous tip.”
“Maybe she’ll show up on CCTV.”
“Enquiries are ongoing. Sadly, you know better than most just what these things are like.”
“Any news on the suspect?”
“Not a word. All attempts to contact Hansen and Masterson have failed. Though apparently Iqbal has had contact with Masterson.”
“Most likely a sign that they’re busy doing their job.”
“We’d better hope so. All I know is that at least twelve people have lost their lives and one of my agents obtained visual evidence connecting the Foreign Secretary with the whole affair. The news channels are already giving the explosion extensive coverage. It’s only a matter of time before the tabloids start asking questions.”
“Any word from the PM?”
“No, but rest assured, I’m expecting it.”
“Where do you want me now?”
“The knights are due to hold council at the Rook at 20:15 hours. Be there when it begins.”
“Yes, sir.”
She tapped the side of her earpiece and told the driver, “The Old Admiralty Building. I’ve only got fifteen minutes.”
*
Oblivious to the recent scare in Covent Garden, the blonde woman in her early fifties alighted the Underground at London Bridge and moved quickly through the main concourse. She bought a ticket at the first free machine she found using cash and, doing her best to avoid detection from the overhead security cameras, followed the signs for platform one.
15
The cellist’s decision to change direction seemed illogical to Mike for several reasons. True, it allowed Everard to continue running without stopping or crossing any busy streets, but it took him east on to the Strand.
Renowned for being one of the most crowded areas in London.
Predictably, the roads were jammed, the sight of the red-top buses crawling in both directions as common as the sound of revving engines. The pavements were busy on both sides; people making their way south-west past Savoy Street in the direction of Trafalgar Square or north-east past King’s College and Somerset House to the Inns of Court and Blackfriars. Though it was crowded, Mike had known it far busier. It was after eight and the shops were in the process of closing, their previously illuminated interiors hidden by metallic shutters. As people gathered around
the pubs and the takeaways, the smell of coffee, beer, chips, burgers and kebabs wafted across the street, creating a strange aroma as they merged with the exhaust fumes of the slow moving traffic.
Staying on the north side, Everard narrowly avoided getting hit by passing cars as he crossed the intersection where the Strand joined with Aldwych. Mike followed, less than fifteen metres behind, on this occasion managing to time his crossing to perfection. Everard’s decision was working out well. Crossing busy roads was always a lottery; a bad decision could result in serious injury or loss of life. On the flip side, an unexpected turn aptly timed could provide the perfect moment of camouflage. Everard had tried it twice already; Mike guessed it would only be a matter of time before he did so again. He was quietly impressed by the man’s stamina. He didn’t look like an athlete; if he had served in the forces, his appearance had deteriorated faster than his fitness. Mike calculated he would win the race over distance.
The key was to keep him in sight.
Everard was keeping close to the greenery on the left side, away from the main road. Interestingly, it was the area where he was receiving least resistance – as if people were purposely staying out of his way. Mike shouted in his direction, but achieving nothing, he decided to change tactic. The age of the camera phone was making his life harder; he remembered Kit had once speculated what James Bond would have done if asked for a selfie. The times were changing. The changes would continue. In a perfect world, people would just leave them to it; no dramas, no attention.
Silently, he was amazed they’d made it so far without attracting attention.
*
The cellist had made it this far; for that he was thankful. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer and he knew he wasn’t out of the woods yet.
The Strand was never the easiest part of London to negotiate, particularly when one was a wanted murderer. Thanks to the closure of the station at Aldwych, escape options were more limited than they used to be.
The Bordeaux Connection Page 12