“Did you know what the Nazis did? Actually, you probably did, you seem like an educated man. I haven’t got time for a lecture. I need to finish what I started. But for the record Mr Darkin we are Roma – and very proud.”
He looked at the screen where Mrs Darkin was frantically trying to evade the two men in her lounge. “Looks like the boys are ready for dessert.” He had Darkin’s attention again.
“Ask me anything.”
“Which of the magic buttons do I press to operate the machinery here?”
“It’s more complicated than just pressing a button.”
“No, Andrew, it isn’t. I’ll ask again. Then I will command my two men to finish her off. She’ll like that, right at the last minute, that feeling of euphoria mixed with the lack of oxygen. Some women really get a thrill out of it. Such a pity your wife won’t be around long enough to ever ask you to try it.”
“The three switches marked Master, Override, and Alarm. See the red, yellow and green illuminated switches on the main panel? Press them in sequence, then step back and admire the view.”
“Is it really as simple as that?”
“As simple. As that.”
“Thank you. You have earned my respect.”
He looked at the computer screen. Rang the taller of the two eager males. “Enough. Secure her to something and leave. Ensure she is not harmed. And get rid of those hideous masks.”
Darkin let out an audible sigh of relief as Alex Stefanescu pressed the three buttons in sequence, and as instructed, stood up and admired the view.
Constantin held the microphone at the radio operator’s lips.
“Speak. Say what you say to the little boats, and that big one over there. Tell them to go away. But do it professionally, just as you would if it was a normal day at work, Martin.”
Using the young man’s first name ensured a rabbit-in-the-headlights response. He did as he was told. Eloquently, calmly and with no obvious code words.
“All shipping Thames, all shipping Thames, east and west of Woolwich, be aware we are moving into the operational phase. This is not an exercise. All vessels to stop and report to Port of London Authority. Port of London received?”
The radio was silent for a second. Then a familiar voice responded.
“Received sir. Thank you. Please advise when you are fully activated.”
“Will do PAL and thank you.”
There was nothing in that sentence that attracted the suspicion of the two members of the Seventh Wave team, men who had worked with Martin Bradley for months. He wished there had been, wished he had been so brave. His face showed he was far removed from being a worthy poker player.
The machinery that raised the immense sections was an engineering work of art. The massive blades scooped water by the ton. A reservoir nearby began to flood. Lights flashed on panels, gauges monitored. All part of the awakening hydraulic monster.
And the water below was a part of the whole process. It surrounded the tunnel and swirled and snagged and clung onto any and everything.
To the north east another situation was developing. She was seamless and reliable too, but in addition, she was dark and brutal.
At the shores, north and south of the Thames and midstream, she began to change. Nature versus Man.
In the Houses of Parliament, he had said she was coming and they had done what? They had laughed and heckled and waved their papers in the air, jeering, sneering, and in the end, ignoring him.
In the North Sea the storm had added momentum and anger to the surge that now raced south, insidiously enveloping the shore line of Suffolk, then Essex, gushing into the massive estuary, beyond piers, boat moorings and bridges, relentless.
People saw it, some say they heard it. The older members of the riverside community had seen it before. The water slewed along, salt overcoming fresh, colours mixed from blue to brown and the darkest green. A green so dark it was practically black. It took on a persona rarely seen. Eddies became whirlpools, riverbanks were devoured, some washed away, wooden jetties, long past their prime creaked and moaned against the force of the water. Some gave in to its almost gravitational pull and collapsed.
Boats, old and new, swayed and bucked and twisted at their moorings. Those that were out on the water, under sail or driven began to feel the tug of the tide. Skippers, experienced or otherwise, began to make the call. Before long, the authorities were overwhelmed with calls.
To the north around Canvey Island and the south at Allhallows the water rushed into the natural funnel, rolled around, tried to head back out to sea but met itself in overwhelming odds.
The city was prepared, they had even discussed it in the House. MPs had jostled in a verbal debate not seen since Thatcher’s days.
The party in power were confident. The authorities were good at this.
The opposition seized the moment – they were brilliant at it, such a shame those in power had made so many cutbacks, they said, to anyone who would listen.
She was there. She protected the city. Had done since 1984. Her iconic steel structure had stood firm, never crumpling under the strain. As the knights had sat in Westminster Abbey, holding court, centuries before, securing the city, so the shining pier heads had remained resolute, safeguarding one of the oldest cities in the world from the high tides and storm surges that threatened to flood the city of London.
She was there. Her piers were named in alphabetical order from south to north, starting with Alpha across the river, ending at Kilo.
The Thames Barrier.
She had no nickname. But for the team that manned her each and every day she was just simply referred to as her. She was their professional home. But on this day, the day that would be recorded in the annals of British history as one of the strongest tidal surges to approach the city in years, the team were locked down, strapped to chairs, concussed, bleeding and bloody helpless.
And the man they called the Jackdaw finally had what he needed to gain what he never truly had, respect.
Chapter 60
“You have to admire the British Constantin. This really is a feat of engineering to be proud of.”
He looked upstream. It had taken a record seventy minutes to close the barrier.
“They built it here because the river bed is stable enough, over five hundred metres across, each section weighs over three thousand tons, they can raise them in minutes if they need to. I could go on, there is very little I don’t know about this project. I like to learn. Prison does that to a man, makes him a little narrow-minded, obsessive perhaps…” He grinned at everyone in the room. “This must be a wonderful place to work. Such power.”
He was squatting down, next to Andrew Darkin, the once-in-charge Ops Manager of the Barrier. He was looking unwell; pale, quieter than he had been before the barrier had hauled itself, pier by pier, up and out of the Thames. Sixty-one metres of sheer power.
“That leg looks nasty.” He pulled a pocketknife out of the small shoulder bag that he had brought with him. Darkin tried to shuffle away but was restrained by two sets of black cable ties that did nothing for his recovery.
“I’m fine. Just let me rest.”
“You could die if I don’t do this.” He pushed the blade into his leg then pulled the skin apart with his fingers as if he were tearing satin. He pressed them deeper into the hole, through the outer layers of magnolia skin, darker, creamy red, the dermis, hair follicles, sweat glands and deeper connective tissue. As the deep red ended the whiter parts began, then the blood vessels appeared, scarlet upon the bleached sections, he marvelled as he separated the flesh from the bone.
The femur. A fresh leg of lamb. He couldn’t tell the difference.
“Why are you doing this to him?” Bradley was now the spokesman of the group.
“Because I am bored, and that bullet is evidence. When we leave, we leave nothing behind.” It explained the blue surgical gloves, they weren’t just there for hygienic purposes.
“And as I said earlier
, he might die if I don’t remove the evidence. This way he lives with a scar to remind him of the day.”
Darkin has passed out long before Alex found the spent round. It sat alongside the bone, had gouged it before skidding off and down his leg, towards his knee, avoiding the artery but rupturing everything else in its path. He’d be dead if it wasn’t for Alex’s prowess with a firearm. He smiled to himself. He was the only person he found amusing these days.
“And there we have it.” He flicked the buckled bullet up with his fingers, pocketed it and wiped his hands on Darkin’s white uniform shirt.
“Pass me that, would you? And the first aid kit.” One of his team turned away from his captives and handed the black object to his leader.
Alex pulled the flesh tight with his fingers, fruitlessly stapled it together, and then wrapped a field dressing around this thigh. “My work here is done, quite literally. Come on team, we need to be somewhere.”
Hewett was parked, watching. Waiting. He had been here before. This time would be different – if anyone so much as asked to get into his car, he would shoot them. In the face. At point blank range. He made a call.
“It’s me. This may be our only chance. Planetary alignment and all that.”
He then rang Roberts.
“Jason. I’m in place. Seems like the world and his wife are focusing on the same place. But I see nothing untoward. In fact I see very little. What about you?”
Roberts lied. “Nothing.”
He wasn’t even remotely near to where Hewett had been sent. As unprofessional as it felt, both Roberts and Daniel had made a decision – use Johnnie Hewett’s skills but divert him to another place entirely.
“Once bitten JD.”
“But he came good, Jason. We need all the bodies we can muster here. Remember, this is as need to know as it gets. Become feral were her words. So let’s not disappoint the lady.”
“Fine, you ring him back. But what can he do? We are all sat here like surfers bobbing around in the ocean waiting for the biggest wave in history and only a few will get to ride it.”
“Perhaps this one will be the seventh?”
“Perhaps.” He tapped his chewed fingernails on the steering wheel. “Ring him. Get him to the safe forward point. Tell him to keep an eye out for Halford. I trust him less than I do Hewett. And Halford respects dear Johnnie – and that, is a rarity.”
Hewett listened, then cleared down. He knew they didn’t trust him. He understood. It was how it was. He had skin so thick a rhinoceros would look on from a distance, quietly envious.
He also needed to exact some revenge on a few people. Those that had made his parents lives a misery. He didn’t need a satnav, he knew where to go and go he did, as fast as traffic would allow. He pressed CD on the audio system and Frankie sang once more.
Halford was already in a prime place. He was watching too. His protection officer was outside the secure door to his city apartment, overlooking the Thames. ‘Deal with anyone that doesn’t look like the milkman or the postman. Kill them if you have to – I have paid you more than generously.’
He stood on the balcony, binoculars in hand, smiling as he made the call. It had taken years to get to this point. It had all started when that stupid girl had tried to get into the United Kingdom, to see the man she said could change her life. She knew too much, way too much, and she was clever. Pretty, too. Very. But she had to die. Her daughter was supposed to as well. They had made a complete pigs ear of that operation – the only positive being that the girl they called Elena had tied up all of the loose ends, delicately weaving a web for someone else to take all the credit – and he was the spider at the centre.
He pressed the button on his Blackberry. “Make the call.”
He called out to his protection officer.
“Be ready to leave in ten. I don’t want to miss this.”
“Will it be safe?”
“As houses.”
Alex hit redial.
“Hello News Desk, how can I help?”
“It is the other way around. Listen, don’t interrupt. Not once.”
Four minutes later, the young journalist ran to his editor.
A minute after that, Alex pressed the pad of his index finger onto his iPhone. It started the sequence that had taken six months to programme. Valentin was a genius. Alex always knew he could trust him. He was a loner, but a great operator, and he too hated a government that had betrayed him. He was best described as a truly astute man. And as far as value for money was concerned, he was worth every penny.
The software processed the instruction. Alex had no understanding of its inner workings, he didn’t need to, as long as it worked. And it did. Oh, it so did. He walked along a corridor, looked out of a window and watched for a second.
“Look, Constantin! We have control at last. Now we need to get what we came for and leave before we die with the rest of the rats.”
“Alex, there is something I need to tell you.”
“Later, when we sip our favourite liquor on a private jet, one that takes us home once more, where the people will carry us on their shoulders.”
Constantin knew it was futile, he had lied to the Jackdaw, and that normally meant one thing, so he kept running, as fast as his withered legs would carry him. Right now, he wished for his eternal mistress, heroin.
They sprinted along the narrow walkway towards Kilo, the northerly pier head. It was further than they thought, but the adrenaline propelled them and as they approached the door it opened seamlessly. The simplicity of having one if his team watch their every move on close circuit television.
“OK, are you ready?” He was genuinely smiling. Ear to crooked ear.
The case had been put there the last time they had tested the facility. It had seemed like the perfect place for it. At the time.
It would prove to be his greatest mistake.’
Alex told him to trust one of the Barrier team, and so he had met, handed it over and tried to forget about the black, waterproof Pelican case. But it woke him, whenever he was lucky enough to sleep. They visited him every night, the lucid dreams of the case, a girl holding it, as it slowly unclipped, the document and the transcripts, soaked, breaking up and useless, floating away in the water.
But how could he tell him? He was his friend, a brother in arms, they had experienced so much, had been tortured by the state, but that would mean nothing in the scheme of things, for the contents of that well-constructed case were his future and the future of his people.
To let down a family member was one thing, to let down and disappoint the Gypsy King was an entirely different proposition.
He needed to tell someone, and soon, but Alex was being carried along on the tide. The clock was ticking and the King had asked, quite specifically, for the documents in their original condition to be made available, and he had given a day and a time. They were to be the ultimate bartering weapon.
And for many months they had sat there, in the black polycarbonate box, dry as the proverbial bone. Accessible, within reach, if you knew where to reach.
What a fool. He could have chosen practically anywhere in the world, anywhere in the vast city, but paranoia had driven him to over think, to trust no one – except the young boy from Bucharest who had sworn he was doing the right thing with the well-constructed box that contained their future hopes.
They could hear the massive hydraulic pistons, pushing and pulling, easing the sector gates into place, one by one. They could hear engineering greatness too, and in the distance the less than subtle rumblings of a gathering storm.
“It’s coming, Constantin. It’s almost here. This is it!”
Scott McCall could almost smell his prey.
Equally Stefan could sense his brother, he didn’t need to smell him. He closed his eyes and knew he was ahead of them. That is how they had been, since the days they had evaded the police in Craiova, on the run after a spree of shoplifting, then heading home to their thoroughly ashamed parents.
The psychologist had predicted a future for Alex that was either brilliant or riddled with cruelty, tainted by crime.
McCall considered any man that could order the death of his own wife and then his daughter to be the lowest creature in the animal kingdom, and he’d made a living out of hunting the filthiest of them all.
McCall held up a hand. Stefan stopped.
“Down this way, brother, it heads to the pier you were telling me about. We get there, we finish it, then all home for tea and medals.”
He moved almost silently, pistol in hand and a back-up magazine of seventeen, a well-practised four seconds away. He signalled Stefan to remain, whilst he forged ahead.
The first round took him by surprise. It came from behind, from behind cover and well-aimed. It missed. By the breadth of the hair on a bluebottle’s arse.
It missed because McCall was always ready. Who Dares Lives. He was down on one knee, sweeping the corridor, up and sideways. The Glock was gripped by the hands of an experienced operator; balanced, thumbs interlocking, taking control. He glared over the top of the front sight.
Bastard.
He knew it. He suspected Cade knew it too.
He couldn’t go forward and he couldn’t return. Now he needed luck to support his field craft. He checked the cargo pocket on his trousers, tapped it reassuringly.
In the steel tomb Cade had made the final cut, he pulled his wrist free, leaned towards the drum and fished around again, deeper into the glass, cutting himself as he plunged deeper.
He couldn’t help quoting to himself, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword.’ Why had the man he loathed put a pen in among the glass? Just a cruel trick? Or was it to allow Cade to write a note to his loved ones, before he drowned in the fetid water?
Deeper, his hand was now lacerated, but he felt no pain. He sifted through the debris, questioning the mentality of men that could just walk away from someone and allow them to choke to death in a watery grave. It seemed to be their forte.
Seven of Swords (The Seventh Wave Trilogy Book 3) Page 59