Here Be Dragons: A Short Story

by Sharon Bolton

  Philips is staring across at the north bank now. ‘There’s no river-front access to the building. They can’t get in from the river.’

  ‘There’s a temporary jetty brought in to allow people to arrive by boat. And these guys are going to have people on the inside – three of them. I need you to check security companies, clerical staff, cleaning, catering. Three people are taking government money but really working for my new friends.’

  Philips is nodding, but it will be far from easy. Hundreds of people work in the Palace of Westminster and the gang have been planning for months, maybe a year or more. A lot of records to check.

  ‘So how’s it going down?’

  ‘I’d say they’ve got some sort of distraction planned on the river – no, I’ve got it, a distraction here on the bridge. Something that gets everyone’s attention while the three stooges on the inside wheel out the jetty. The boat crew, driven by yours truly, leap ashore, pull out the weaponry and it’s gunfight at the OK Corral, Westminster-style.’

  Philips is looking up and down the length of the bridge. ‘What sort of distraction?’

  ‘How should I know? Car on fire. Marching band. Circus clowns bungee-jumping over the side. Something that gets everyone looking, draws at least some of the police away from the parliament buildings, and takes the palace security off their guard for a few minutes.’

  ‘Assassination, then, you’re thinking?’

  ‘Seems most likely. Not necessarily a single target, though. Time it to coincide with a major function, you could take out half the cabinet.’

  Philips runs a hand over his face. ‘Or the President of the United States.’

  Joesbury waits until a young couple have walked past. ‘Run that one by me again.’

  Sweat is beading at Philips’ temples. ‘Why do you think I’ve managed to keep you on the job this long? There is a visit by the first family in July. Mrs President and the daughters arrive first, round about the tenth from memory, have a few days doing the London sights, then the Big Cheese himself flies out from Davos to meet them.’

  The clang Joesbury can hear is the sound of a major piece of the puzzle falling into place. ‘And am I right in thinking that the Jewish lobby aren’t his biggest fans right now?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly. He’s been accused of breaking the unbreakable bond. So if something does go down, and it looks like the Palestinians are behind it, we could see a major change of direction from the US towards Israel.’

  ‘Do we know his itinerary?’

  ‘State banquet at Buck House on Sunday evening and then he’s due to address both Houses of Parliament the next day. Followed by lunch, guess where.’

  Joesbury doesn’t need to guess. The President will be having lunch on the House of Commons terrace. He checks the calendar app on his phone.

  ‘Monday 14 July,’ he says. ‘Guess that’s our day.’

  ‘It would be a suicide mission, though,’ says Philips. ‘He’ll be surrounded by armed security. It would take one hell of a distraction to get past that lot and there’d be no way out. And these special-ops bodyguards know what they’re doing. One hint of trouble and they’ll have the big guy out of there before the makeshift jetty goes down.’

  ‘If the PLO London branch are all expecting to go down fighting, why did I drive a RIB at thirty knots up the Thames to Chelsea heliport last night? Some of them, at least, are expected to get away, probably by helicopter. And let’s just say for the sake of argument they do have a hell of a distraction. They’ve got three people on the inside and a crew of between four and six coming up the river. Nine armed gunmen can do a lot of damage.’

  ‘OK, we can increase surveillance on the bridge over the coming days and we can warn MI6 we think there’ll be an attempt on the President. On the day itself, we can up presence on the river and have police on standby at the heliport. As soon as that GPS trace tells us you’re sailing up the central channel, we’ll know we’re on. It also means we’ve got a few days to play with. The President doesn’t arrive until Sunday 13 July. Well done, Mark.’

  Joesbury grunts.

  ‘But do we know for sure that you’ll be driving the boat? If I were Rich-Man, now that you’ve shown them what to do, I’d get one of my own guys.’

  ‘Two reasons why I think they’ll use me. One, I scared the shit out of them last night, and they know it’s not easy to drive a high-speed boat up the Thames. Two, I don’t think they’re planning to use their own RIB. They think holding a position in the river won’t be a problem, which suggests they’ll be using something that passes for an official boat. Something normal river crafts won’t mess with.’

  ‘One of the Marine Unit RIBs?’

  ‘Seems most likely, but how they’re going to get hold of one is anybody’s guess. What worries me is this. What makes them think I’m going to go along with their plans to ram-raid the mother of all parliaments? How, exactly, do they plan to make me do that?’

  8

  JOESBURY IS IN the shower when they come for him. He feels the boat rock, hears low-pitched voices and he knows this is it. And with that certainty comes the twisting fear that something is wrong. It is too soon. The President is not due for another forty-eight hours.

  He wraps a towel around his waist and squeezes out through the narrow bathroom door.

  Rich isn’t here. He knows for sure, now, even if he didn’t before, because Rich will never get involved in the wet work. Assaf the brains, Haddad the young muscle and Malouf the engineer are in the cabin and he can see two more – Safar and Kouri – up top in the cockpit. All seem overdressed in large cotton sweatshirts and the thought that he could have been wrong about suicide bombers, that they could all be strapped up with explosives, sends another wave of fear through him.

  ‘Get dressed, please.’ Assaf doesn’t bother to greet him. ‘Quickly.’

  In the cabin where he sleeps, Joesbury’s clothes have been removed and in their place is the uniform of a Marine Unit sergeant and a large black sweatshirt, similar to those the men in the cabin are wearing.

  Not Semtex under their clothes then, something arguably far worse: the ability to get very close to the Palace of Westminster.

  He scans the cabin, looking for his jacket, for the GPS tracer that is still in his pocket. There is no sign of his own clothes or of his phone. He opens cupboards, peers along shelves, but there is nothing in this cabin that can help him. Bed linen, coat hangers in the empty wardrobe, a small torch and a stack of life jackets in one cupboard.

  He dresses slowly, needing time to think, but when he knows it can’t be avoided any longer, he rejoins the men.

  ‘Where’s my jacket? It’s got my wallet inside.’

  ‘Your wallet’s over there.’ Assaf nods at the chart table.

  ‘I need my phone,’ Joesbury tries again.

  ‘Ghufran, have you got his phone?’

  Haddad holds up Joesbury’s mobile.

  ‘You know what to do.’

  Haddad turns to the nearest port-side hatch and tosses the phone out of the boat. Joesbury hears the splash as it hits the water and hopes the expression on his face says mildly pissed off, rather than very afraid.

  ‘Where’s Beenie?’ A sudden thought hits him. Now that it’s happening, Beenie could have outlived his usefulness.

  ‘Driving Rich out of town.’

  If that’s true, then he’s safe. If. ‘So what’s going down?’

  ‘You drive the boat. Do what you’re told. Up you go.’

  Joesbury sits. ‘Sorry guys, I’ve gone along with this for three weeks now, but I’ve had it. If we’re going to impersonate a Marine Unit crew, how are we doing that, exactly? Because if we sneak up to Wapping like the red team in a paintball skirmish and try to steal a boat, I think they might notice.’

  Lacey will be on shift right now. There is no way he is taking this lot anywhere near her. Except it looks as though he is, because Assaf has pulled out a handgun.

  ‘Stand up. Arms in
the air.’

  Joesbury does as he’s told, because no one argues with a man holding a loaded gun. He is patted down to make sure he hasn’t sneaked anything into his new pockets and then shoved up the steps.

  Safar is already in the RIB, holding on to the mooring line. The camera is back, balanced on Malouf’s shoulder. Kouri and Safar are wearing baseball caps, but tucked away under the front seat of the RIB Joesbury sees uniformed hats, including one worn by a sergeant.

  The men have been practising their boat-handling skills. The whole business of untying lines and pushing away from the marina is much slicker now. Joesbury has nothing to do but take the helm, start the engines and steer slowly out of the dock.

  Assaf nods downstream, towards Wapping, and Joesbury turns the boat, steering them under Tower Bridge. He isn’t going to do it. He will not take this lot to Wapping police station. He will leap overboard with the ignition key. Back in the yacht cabin, he’d pulled a life jacket over his stolen uniform. He’ll survive.

  They aren’t going to Wapping. All five men in the boat watch it nervously as they drive past, but he receives no orders to turn in. Instead, they continue downstream. At Rotherhithe, they see another craft heading towards them. Assaf lifts binoculars, watches it drawing closer. The others are watching it too.

  ‘Ram it,’ Assaf tells him.

  ‘Fuck, no.’ He can see it now. It’s a Marine Unit RIB, heading back to Wapping after some task in Docklands.

  ‘Do it.’ Assaf’s gun is pointing at him again. Knowing that aggressive action on his part will prompt a radio alert, Joesbury switches course, pushes down the throttle and heads directly for the Marine Unit RIB. The police boat cuts its speed.

  The gap between the two RIBs is narrowing. One hundred metres, fifty. One of the constables on board is standing in the bow, holding on with one hand, with the other gesturing that they slow down. Hope plummeting, Joesbury recognizes the young female.

  ‘OK, I think we’ve got their attention.’ Assaf pulls back on the throttle to slow the boat, then tugs sharply on the wheel to turn the RIB to starboard. Then he kills the engine.

  ‘On your knees.’ He jabs Joesbury sharply in the shoulder with the gun. ‘Get down.’

  Joesbury makes a grab for the keys, but before he can pull them from the ignition two of the men are on him, pushing him to the RIB’s floor. Haddad, the heavier of the two, sits on his chest, Safar kneels on his legs.

  ‘Watch out!’ Joesbury takes a kick in the head as the others start shouting.

  ‘We need help here!’

  ‘We’ve lost someone overboard!’

  ‘We need you over here. Now!’

  ‘Can you state your business on the river, please?’

  Joesbury knows that voice, even distorted by the loudhailer, has known it his whole life. He squirms, tries to call out, to warn his uncle, but the weight pinning him down won’t budge.

  ‘We’ve lost someone overboard. And I think the vessel is leaking. We can’t control it.’

  ‘State your business on the river.’

  Fred is no fool, but he can’t refuse help to a vessel in distress and the Marine Unit teams, to the extent that they are on alert, are expecting trouble two days from now.

  ‘We’re a film company.’

  ‘Filming on the river. We got into trouble.’

  ‘Throw me a line.’

  That last is Lacey’s voice and not over the tannoy. She is close enough to be heard, close enough for a line to be thrown. Joesbury makes one last effort, almost bucking off the man on his chest.

  ‘What’s going on?’ he hears. ‘Who have you—’

  ‘Throw me a line. Do it now, or your friend here gets it.’

  The weight lifts from Joesbury’s chest and for a second he can do nothing other than suck in the air he’s been surviving without for the last few minutes. Then Safar gets off his legs and he can roll over, push himself up on to his elbows.

  All the men in his boat have guns in their hands, although he sees they are holding them close to their bodies, or pointing downwards, just in case someone is watching from the bank.

  Lacey’s eyes flicker his way but she doesn’t let on that she knows him. Neither does Uncle Fred who is still at the helm. The other two constables on board the police RIB are men whom Joesbury doesn’t know.

  ‘Moor up, we’re coming on board. Back on your feet, jackass, hold the boat steady.’

  Joesbury gets up and takes the wheel. At a grim nod from Fred, Lacey and one of the other constables throw lines across and the two RIBs are secured together.

  ‘Stay in neutral, son, I’ll hold us in the water.’ Fred looks directly at Joesbury, who nods back. Two boats with engines this powerful could tip over if not handled properly. Fred will need to hold them in position and stop them drifting for as long as they are roped together.

  Assaf and Malouf have already scrambled on board the Marine Unit boat.

  ‘This is a very serious offence, guys.’ Fred isn’t going quietly. ‘And if I don’t contact base in the next couple of minutes to tell them everything’s fine, we’re going to have a lot of company out here.’

  ‘Shut it, or your boy gets it between the eyes.’ Haddad points his gun at Joesbury.

  They cannot know about the connection between him and Fred. And yet something tells him that, bad though the situation may be, there is worse to come.

  ‘Officer.’ Assaf is speaking to one of Lacey’s fellow constables. ‘Can you and your colleague here kindly board our boat?’

  ‘What’s going on?’ one of them wants to know.

  Fred calls from the helm, ‘Do what he says, Josh. You too, Rory. Take care, both of you.’

  What’s going on is a swapping of personnel, a hijack, the occupants of each boat being moved on to the other. Lacey is about to climb aboard the terrorist boat. Her eyes are wide and her jaw-line tight with tension. Cool as ever, though, she doesn’t even glance at Joesbury as she steps up towards the rim of the police RIB.

  ‘Not you, Miss. Stay where you are, please.’

  No, Lacey has to be on this boat, where she has a chance of being safe in a few minutes.

  ‘Jackass, over you go. Take the wheel.’

  Joesbury crosses on to the Marine Unit RIB, grasping Lacey’s hand briefly, as if for balance, and then takes the helm from Fred. Haddad follows, leaving Safar and the two constables on board Rich’s RIB. First Fred, then Lacey is made to crouch in the bow of the police RIB whilst their wrists and ankles are bound with duct tape. Tape is stretched across their mouths. There is a tarpaulin next to them. Throw that over the top and no one will know they are there.

  ‘These two will just slow us down,’ Joesbury tries. ‘Put them on the other boat.’

  Assaf raises his gun and aims at the boat they’ve just vacated. He fires twice. Constable Rory’s head bursts apart like a ripe fruit. Constable Josh takes a shot in the neck and collapses down out of sight.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Assaf says.

  9

  THE CAPTURED BOAT makes its way upriver towards Westminster. Tower Bridge is behind them now.

  The colour of the sky is deepening, its eggshell blue becoming turquoise, deeper on the horizon, with a hint of the indigo to come.

  The air around the RIB seems to have become heavier. Joesbury can feel the weight of it pressing him down.

  The whole of London might be on the river tonight. Every riverside pub and café overflows with sunburned bodies. People sit on the river wall or walk along the embankments, watching the craft on the river.

  The radio crackles into life. ‘MP to Marine Six, can we have an update on your situation?’

  Assaf taps Joesbury on the shoulder. ‘You know what to say. One mistake and your girlfriend and uncle will suffer.’

  Joesbury feels fear creep around his heart the way a snake coils about a tree branch, but he makes himself stare vacantly at their two trussed prisoners. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve never seen these p
eople before—’

  ‘We know exactly who you are, Detective Inspector Joesbury, we know about your familial relationship with Frederick Wilson and your romantic involvement with Constable Lacey Flint. Do exactly as we say for the next thirty minutes and no harm will come to any of you. Depart from my instructions for a second and I will shoot first of all your uncle, then the woman you love. Am I making myself clear?’

  Fred’s eyes close briefly; Lacey’s gaze hasn’t wavered.

  ‘MP to Marine Six, what’s going on out there? I need a response, Marine Six.’

  Joesbury picks up the transmitter. ‘Marine Six to MP, we’re good here, thanks. We hailed a vessel in difficulties, offered what assistance we could and sent them on their way. We’re proceeding upriver now as previously instructed.’

  ‘Thanks for that. MP out.’

  And that’s the final piece in the puzzle of why the gang need him. Not just for his boat-handling skills, not just for his knowledge of the river, but also because his voice, over the radio, will be just about indistinguishable from that of his uncle.

  As they near Southwark Bridge, Joesbury wants only one thing. To find the cunt who betrayed him and cut out his tongue. His boss? No, he’d stake his life on Philips being sound. Beenie then. Rage fills him and for a second he feels he might lose it completely, but in the bow of the boat, Lacey’s calm, hazel-blue eyes never leave him and he holds it together.

  A pleasure cruiser is steaming down the centre channel, probably heading for Greenwich. As it draws close, Assaf throws the tarpaulin over Fred and Lacey. The passengers in the pleasure craft will see a Marine Unit RIB with five uniformed officers on board. Several of them wave as the two boats draw level, no doubt seeing the young, predominantly dark-skinned crew and thinking how encouraging it is that the Metropolitan Police are finally embracing ethnic diversity. Haddad waves back.