The Gambit (Ben Lewis Thriller Book 2)

by David N Robinson

  Most definitely not waving goodbye to the departing train – and his rucksack – from his current position out on the station platform.

  Lewis stoops to get a better look. As he does so, any lingering doubts soon vanish. When the man sees Lewis peering at him, a thin smile forms on the weatherworn face. He has something small in his hand, something that he points directly towards the carriage as the train picks up speed.

  It is then that Lewis hears it: a distinctive ‘click’. The sounds emanates from somewhere deep within the rucksack. It is quite loud. Olena hears it also. A dawning concern shows on her face as well.

  Lewis knows that noise.

  More specifically, he knows the type of device that makes it.

  Soldiers use such a device when they want to prime a detonator to explode, at some time in the not-too distant future.

  Terrorists also use it. When they have placed a bomb in situ, wanting to make a rapid escape before an explosion is triggered.

  The rucksack has to contain a bomb.

  How long the likely fuse delay is, Lewis can only guess. Doubtless it will be short – perhaps just sufficient to allow the train to reach the middle of the large expanse of viaduct?

  Which Lewis estimates will be sometime in the next sixty seconds.

  18

  ‘If you think before you act, most times you’ll end up dead before you get started.’ Lewis’s colour sergeant had loved his mottos. Good or bad, the words stick. Ever since, Lewis has been big on personal autopilot.

  Time is critical. Lewis has, at best, seconds remaining to get the rucksack off the train before the device explodes. Lifting the heavy bag off the seat, he aggressively and urgently pushes past people standing in the aisle, heading for the rear doors. People standing in the door-well see the driven look in his eyes and make space for him. Lewis grabs the red emergency handle immediately by the exit and pulls hard. Adjacent to it is a green square panel, fronted by glass that covers an emergency door release mechanism. With his fist clenched, he punches a hole in the glass, pushing the button underneath. The train is already braking hard. Panic and confusion is beginning to spread throughout the carriage.

  Lewis asks a teenage boy who has been standing, leaning against the door, to help. Together they slide one of the two double doors into the ‘open’ position. It creates a gap of sufficient width to allow Lewis to take the rucksack by its strap, swing it backwards behind him, and then hurl it with all his might outside of the carriage. The train is now stationary, its position on the viaduct about one third of the way across. Time stands still as the bag travels slowly in an upward arc into the open space to the side of the train. The distance to the flat grassy area below the track is about thirty metres. Lewis yells to everyone in the carriage to keep their heads down and avoid looking out of the glass windows. He counts down in his head as first the rucksack reaches the top of its meagre upward trajectory, then begins its descent towards the ground at the foot of the viaduct. Less than three seconds later there is a massive explosion. The train rocks vigorously from side to side, the strength of the viaduct’s brickwork put to the test by the blast.

  Inside the train several passengers have begun shouting and screaming. No one is hurt. Even the glass windows have, amazingly, remained intact.

  Lewis senses an opportunity: if he is quick, he might have a chance of catching the bomber back at Welwyn North station: the station platform is, after all, only a few hundred metres behind the train. Asking the teenage boy to hold open the door for him once more, he yells back into the carriage for Olena to follow. Without waiting to see if she hears, he jumps down, sprinting along the tracks to the rear of the train for all he is worth.

  19

  As soon as he heard the explosion, Virenque knew that something had gone wrong. The sound had been different in both pitch and intensity from what he’d been expecting. He had chosen the amount of C-4 to use with great care. He liked using C-4. The RDX-based plastic explosive was, absent the detonator, almost completely inert. He had moulded and shaped the putty-like substance carefully, positioning it within the rucksack in a way that he knew would create a massive downwards blast once detonated. The relatively small amount of explosive he had been carrying was never going to be sufficient to destroy the viaduct completely. However, when Virenque had planned the detonation, set to go off forty-five seconds after it had been primed, the idea had been that it would nonetheless cause significant damage to the bridge. The shape and quantity of the charge should have created a huge blast wave: rendering the viaduct weakened, if not unusable – not simply killing those passengers on the train in the bomb’s immediate vicinity. Panich had been most insistent on the need to damage the viaduct. It was part of the smokescreen: the subterfuge of making the bomb appear to have a different primary purpose other than killing people on the train.

  Even if one of them did happen to be Olena Nemikov.

  Not to mention the former Marine, Ben Lewis.

  The detonation complete, Virenque’s priority was getting away from the area as rapidly as possible. Earlier that morning he had driven to the station in a six-year old Volkswagen Golf. The car had been acquired the previous afternoon – he had paid cash to a delighted mother who’d been advertising it for sale on the Internet. Walking at a brisk pace to where he had parked the car, he wondered what might have gone wrong. He was confident that he had used the correct amount of explosive; and, over the years, he had learned enough about explosive charges to be equally confident that he had shaped the plastic appropriately. So what had happened?

  Out of the corner of one eye, something caught his attention. It was a man, running along the train tracks, heading from the viaduct towards the station platform. Without changing his stride, Virenque clicked the remote control on his key fob. The silver Golf’s indicator lights flashed a couple of rows of cars ahead of him. He climbed into the driver’s seat and switched on the ignition. Once seated, Virenque could more clearly observe as the man sprinted up the stairs of the station footbridge. Virenque recognised who it was. In an instant, he understood everything. It was the ex-Marine, the man on the train. The one Panich had also wanted killed.

  Ben Lewis.

  Lewis must have seen him get off the train: known, or guessed, that the rucksack contained a bomb. More likely, he had heard the tell-tale sound of the primer being set as the train had left the station platform. What a lucky bastard!

  The man was using the height of the bridge to gain a better vantage point: if the roles were reversed, it was arguably what he would have done himself.

  Then he saw something else. Another person: also running along the track; also heading towards the station platform. As Virenque put the car into gear and began driving away from the car park, he could see who it was.

  The Nemikov girl.

  Which gave him an idea.

  When he’d arrived at the station that morning, he’d scouted the area around the viaduct before parking his car at the station. If he took care to let both Lewis and the girl see him leave in the Golf, there was a chance that he might be able at least to finish one part of his, now, failed mission.

  A few hundred yards around the corner was a place that had looked ideal.

  20

  As Lewis sprints, he tries putting himself in the bomber’s shoes: what is his next move likely to be? Almost certainly, he will have planned his getaway. That means there is probably a car or motorbike parked somewhere: in a place that allows for a quick exit. Either that, or there will have been someone waiting for him at the station. Lewis thinks this is unlikely. It creates an unnecessary additional link in a chain by which someone might trace him. No, he concludes, it will be a vehicle of some description, parked in the car park – a car most likely: something quick and reliable; and nothing too flashy. Most London-centric commuter railway stations had car parks on both sides of the trac
ks. The bomber had been travelling on a London-bound train, heading from north to south, the station platform on the left-hand side. In all probability, therefore, his getaway vehicle is parked on the east side of the tracks. Up ahead of him, getting closer by the second, is a pedestrian footbridge that crosses from one side of the railway to the other. The view from the top will give the best vantage point.

  Lewis checks his watch. Less than three minutes have elapsed since the train first pulled out of Welwyn North station. The bomber is still in the vicinity, Lewis feels sure. This man will be playing it cool. He won’t be sprinting or jogging to his getaway vehicle: it risks drawing undue attention to himself.

  He takes the footbridge stairs two at a time, at the top stopping and listening, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. He checks in all directions. At first he sees or hears nothing. Then, from the east-side car park, he spots it: a 2008 registered silver-coloured Volkswagen Golf.

  In the driving seat is the man: complete with mirrored-sunglasses and a hooded sweatshirt.

  21

  Sprinting down the stairs of the footbridge, Lewis arrives on the station forecourt just as the Golf leaves the car park, heading southwards. He searches frantically for a suitable vehicle to beg, borrow or steal. This is the time he wishes he had his lovingly restored Honda CB750 to hand. Olena appears, gasping and out of breath from having tried to keep up with Lewis.

  “What the hell is going on, Ben?”

  “We’ve got to follow that silver car,” he says pointing in the Golf’s wake.

  A couple on a Honda motor scooter pull into the station forecourt. The rear passenger, a woman, climbs off the back of the scooter, heading towards the ticket office. A moped isn’t a perfect choice, but it is the only option immediately to hand.

  “Follow me. When I call, simply climb on the back and say nothing.”

  The driver, a man in his early forties, is wearing a half-face helmet with goggles. Lewis approaches him from behind at an oblique angle to his left such he has no idea what is about to happen. Wasting no time, Lewis jabs the man firmly in the ribs with his right elbow. Using the strength in his other hand, he then pulls the unsuspecting victim off his seat whilst holding the scooter with the other hand. The man falls to the tarmac, winded and confused, but not seriously hurt.

  “Come on,” Lewis shouts at Olena. As soon as she is sitting behind him, he accelerates away sharply in search of the Golf.

  The Honda is no match for the Golf in terms of speed. Lewis’s immediate concern is where the bomber might be heading. Accelerating in the same general direction, his mental compass tells him that the road will veer around in a broad loop directly towards the viaduct itself. Sure enough, a short distance later, the Victorian bridge’s massive brickwork arches come into view, across to their right. One minute they are travelling at over fifty miles an hour, the next Lewis is jamming on the brakes, the machine coming to an abrupt halt. Just ahead is a mini-roundabout. A few metres in front is a small driveway: a silver Golf has pulled in, the driver’s door wide open. It is the same car. The bomber is nowhere to be seen. It appears as if the vehicle has been abandoned and the man is making a run for it. Most probably, heading down the small lane running immediately behind where the car is parked. Either that or he has just switched vehicles with another that had been lying in wait.

  “What do we do now?” Olena asks.

  “Wait here. I’m going to take a look down the track.”

  “What if he comes back when you’re away?”

  Lewis is already off the bike, starting to run down the narrow lane.

  “He won’t,” he calls over his shoulder. “If he does, just holler. I’m not going far.”

  22

  Lewis’s mistake had been thinking that Virenque had disappeared down the small lane. In fact, the Frenchman had chosen the location with care. It was a place where anyone following would readily have been duped. Immediately adjacent to the lane entrance, nearest the road and hidden by the parked Golf, was a small driveway. It belonged to a private residence. There were two brick pillars on either side, it once having been a gated entrance. Virenque was crouched behind one of these. From here, he was able to watch from the shadows as Lewis fell for his simple trap, running off down the lane, away from the parked Golf.

  Olena, still sitting astride the motor scooter, never heard or saw Virenque when he crept up behind her. As a skilled practitioner of the Russian martial art of Systema, he knew exactly where and how to execute the perfect neck chop. Aimed directly at Olena’s vagus nerve, the cranial connection that links brain and body, the blow temporarily immobilised her, causing her to pass out. As she fell to one side, he hoisted her on to his shoulder, silently carrying her limp form across to the Golf. He opened the boot and placed her unceremoniously inside. Then, closing the rear tailgate without a sound, he climbed into the driver’s seat and restarted the engine. He was now in a position to atone for his earlier failure. All that remained was to drive to a private, secluded, location before killing the Ukrainian woman, expertly, at his leisure. It was, after all, what he was particularly good at.

  Putting the car into reverse, he lined up the driver’s side front bumper so that, as he drove away, he would knock over, and immobilise, the scooter. The sound of the car starting had caused Lewis to turn around. Virenque could see him in the rear view mirror, sprinting back towards him. Virenque was tempted to take a shot: however, the angle was difficult and it was an unnecessary additional risk.

  Instead, this time he simply put his foot on the accelerator and sped away.

  23

  Lewis is fifty metres down the lane when he hears the car starting. Cursing, he spins around and starts sprinting back towards where he left Olena and the Honda.

  Except that Olena is no longer there.

  From a standing start, fifty metres at Lewis’s personal best of eight metres a second takes him almost six and a half seconds. It is nowhere near quick enough. The Golf is accelerating away towards the Digswell viaduct by the time he covers the distance. The stolen motor scooter lies immobilised on the roadside next to where the car had been, its front wheel badly buckled. How could he have been so stupid?

  ‘Commiserating over battles lost will never win you the war, solider.’

  It is Lewis’s colour sergeant once again. It is small consolation but he is right – and Lewis knows it.

  There is a car park in the distance, close to the viaduct and next to a school. It is the time of day when parents are collecting children. The car park is half full, with more cars arriving. Lewis runs across the road, focusing, in particular, on a black Mercedes four-by-four that is parked in the middle of the lot with its engine running. The owner is out of the car, talking with another parent a short distance away. They are staring at the viaduct and pointing, doubtless discussing the recent explosion.

  It is the break Lewis needs.

  Judging the moment finely, Lewis climbs into the driver’s seat and begins accelerating away. In the rear view mirror, the owner continues talking to her friend, for the time being unaware her car has been stolen.

  Once on the main road, Lewis floors the accelerator, content to be driving a car with a powerful three-litre diesel engine beneath its bonnet. He checks the fuel gauge: the tank is nearly full. His current location is close to where the rucksack bomb exploded, the road about to pass immediately beneath one of the arches of the viaduct. Two cars have pulled to one side, their drivers – now curious spectators – also out of their cars and gesticulating in various directions. Lewis swerves around them, trying to close the gap on the Golf. A helicopter appears to his left, slowing to a hover directly above the railway viaduct. Lewis snatches a brief look. The machine bears the navy blue livery of a police helicopter.

  The road continues in a north-westerly direction. Lewis is fast approaching a decision point: whether or
not to turn onto the A1M motorway – and, if so, in which direction does he need to go?

  24

  Digswell viaduct is located less than three miles from the headquarters of the Hertfordshire Police constabulary at Stanborough Park to the south of Welwyn Garden City. Within minutes of the bomb exploding, the Chief Constable for Hertfordshire had been informed. The decision had been taken to invoke the county’s multi-agency Emergency Response Plan. Under the terms of the plan, jurisdiction of major incidents passes to a consortium of interested agencies known as ‘Hertfordshire Resilience’ – chaired by the Hertfordshire Constabulary.

  Like a well-oiled machine, the emergency response centre at Welwyn’s Police Headquarters began the process of initiating various strands of connected activity relating to the incident. The National Police Air Service had been contacted at their headquarters location in West Yorkshire and two helicopters had been cleared for immediate take off: the first was expected to arrive at the viaduct imminently. Ambulance despatchers from the nearby Lister Hospital in Stevenage had also been notified. Although reports of casualties were low, two ambulances had been despatched to Welwyn North station and another three were being held on standby. Forensic experts and dog handling teams were on their way to the scene of the incident: the dogs’ immediate priority would be to check for any other explosive devices or residues that might still be on the train.

  Meanwhile, buses were in the process of being tracked down in order to ferry passengers from the train to a nearby school so that they could be interviewed and have arrangements made for their onward journeys. The co-ordination exercise was complicated since the presence of an explosive device meant that officers from Counter Terrorism command, part of Special Operations branch in London’s Metropolitan Police, had to be contacted. Several specialist investigators were being driven under fast motorbike escort from central London to Welwyn. They again would want to interview some, if not all, of the passengers. Finally, whilst the operation of the rail network was the responsibility of Network Rail, responsibility for policing of the railways in the UK was down to the British Transport Police. Both of these bodies needed to be fully part of the incident response. Specialist engineers were going to need to assess the extent of structural damage, if any, caused to the viaduct by the bomb blast. They also needed to consider what length of time it would take to conduct any necessary repairs: they then needed to advise rail passenger groups accordingly.