Absence of Mercy

by Joe McCoubrey

  The thought was still in his mind when the desk telephone buzzed. “Mike, don’t tell me you’re still running around chasing ghosts?”

  “I think we’ve found him.”

  “What!”

  Devon detailed the discovery of the river cruiser purchase and urged Ramsden to set every available vessel on an interception course for the Maid of Inishfree. “It looks like he’s going for a water assault on the frontage of the Palace of Westminster.”

  “But there’s an exclusion zone in place. He’ll not get within a half-mile of the area.”

  “Do you not think he’s thought about that? He’ll have something up his sleeve, although for the life of me I can’t yet work out what he intends to do.”

  “Tell me,” Ramsden said, “do you believe he’s operating from on board the cruiser?”

  “No way of knowing, but my gut tells me it will be a remote detonation like the other two bombs we found this morning…..”

  Ramsden interrupted. “That means he has to have an accomplice steering the cruiser into position. Who do you get these days for a suicide mission?”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Devon told him. “Take your pick from any one of a number of jihadist warriors. We can’t worry about that now. How are we with the cellphone blockage of the area?”

  Ramsden cleared his throat. “I’m going to give you this the way it was told to me. All cellphones masts in the greater London area were shut down as of five minutes ago. On top of this all radio signals operating on the standard three kilohertz to three-hundred gigahertz wavelengths have been taken off the grid, along with as many computer wireless transmitters as can be accessed.”

  “That ought to do it.”

  “No,” Ramsden told him forcibly. “We still have satellite communications to worry about. The GCHQ boys are up to their necks in retasking or bombarding dishes with as much junk as they can find to overload the systems, but nothing is guaranteed. Even with all these measures we’re still left with the possibility of something else being used. Basically, all that’s required is a transmitter and receiver, both of which can be made in your bedroom if you have enough savvy about how these things work. Hell, you don’t even need a wavelength or a phone or a satellite to bounce a signal from one to the other. These days you can do it via computer to computer.”

  Devon’s voice couldn’t disguise his anger. “Are you saying we can’t stop a signal getting through?”

  “What I’m saying is that they’ve done the best they can do. The bottom line is that despite the blockages it takes very little for even a weak pulse to find its way from the transmitter to the receiver. Any sort of connection will complete the circuit and trigger the device.”

  Chapter 42

  CAPTAIN STEVE MARTIN eased the Maid of Inishfree away from the South Bank and out into his allotted channel, mindful to keep his speed down to three knots on this, the busiest leisure stretch of the Thames. He was carrying a full complement of sixty tourists, eager to leave behind the London Eye and continue on the last leg of their cruise to the Southbank Centre under the Hungerford Bridge.

  Martin frowned as the boat’s bow began a slow turn to port, something that shouldn’t be happening with his hands set firmly on the ship’s wheel. He attempted to make an adjustment, but the wheel was locked solid. He pulled frantically on the mahogany frame, which refused to budge, and outside the window he could see his vessel continuing a sharp turn.

  Horns blared around him as the Maid completed a one-eighty. He fought to wrestle back control, thinking that something must have jammed in the rudder’s electro-hydraulic drive. He reached his right hand forward to the dashboard console and pushed a button to disengage the engines. Nothing happened.

  The pitch of the engines began to rise, and with it the speedometer reading climbed. The needle moved to five knots, then seven, then ten. And it kept rising. The cruiser was now in mid-channel ploughing towards Westminster Bridge, with the London Aquarium building disappearing from his portside window.

  His passengers must have sensed something was wrong. He could hear the babble of voices, and then a scream from a woman standing immediately outside his bridge compartment. He looked ahead and gaped in amazement as two Marine Police fastboats closed together to form a barricade directly under the bridge’s central span. He was headed straight for them.

  A man in uniform was standing on the prow of one of the boats, screaming into a megaphone and waving his left arm in a frantic stop motion. The noise of the Maid’s engines prevented Martin from hearing what was being yelled. He glanced again at the speedometer. The needle was now almost touching the fifteen-knot notch.

  The combination of speed and the sturdy wooden construction of the Maid of Inishfree meant there could be only one outcome. The sharp oak bow ploughed headlong into the police craft, sending them spinning away, their fibreglass hulls spider-cracked by the force of the collision. The Maid shuddered slightly before breaking free under the bridge and into the clear waters ahead.

  Martin noticed two other boats racing towards him. He could make out the shape of a uniformed man leaning on the bridge of the first vessel. He was pointing something. Martin couldn’t make it out, but it was clear it was not a megaphone this time. As it loomed closer, the old captain could see the distinctive shape of a rifle barrel.

  There was still a gap of eighty yards when the Maid began to turn to starboard. Martin realised with horror that she was heading directly for the centre of the Palace of Westminster building.

  The reading now showed twenty knots!

  Stratton had a grandstand view as he toggled the arm of the steering console with his right hand. At the same time his left index finger moved a dial on the laptop’s touchscreen, increasing the speed of the hapless cruiser, which was now under his absolute control. Within a matter of minutes he would crash the boat against the building.

  His timing was almost impeccable.

  A glance at his watch told him it was two minutes before noon. He pictured Manfred Stelling walking from the car park at St Margaret’s Church behind the Palace of Westminster. He knew Stelling would attempt to get as close to the rear of the buildings as possible before detonating his bomb. As agreed, they would both enter the cellphone signal at precisely twelve o’clock.

  Even from this range, Stratton knew he couldn’t take his chances of survival for granted. The concussive wave from across the river would tear into the hospital buildings, sending glass and brickwork hurtling in all directions.

  As soon as he initiated the firing sequence, he would rush behind the sturdy morgue building, lie flat against its base, and hope for the best.

  What will be, will be. His fate rested with Allah.

  The Maid of Inishfree was now less than fifty yards from the Palace buildings. Suddenly she came to a shuddering halt, her stern lifting in a froth of water. He could see people being thrown into the water from her decks, the noise of their screams mingling with the piercing screech of dying engines and the crack of timbers. The water continued to churn into a muddy whirlpool before the engines finally died and the boat bobbled helplessly in the maelstrom.

  All sorts of thoughts raced through Stratton’s mind. Had the boat hit an underwater mine? Nonsense! Had someone fired an RPG into her? No, he would have seen the flash. What then?

  The realisation of what must have happened made him smile. Obviously the cruiser had run against some kind of below-water barrage or boom, intended for just this type of eventuality. It should have occurred to him that the buildings would have some sort of river protection in place, but in the end it didn’t matter. The boat was close enough for his purpose.

  He discarded the laptop and fished in his pocket for the mobile phone. He scrambled back through the bushes and made his way to the morgue while he tapped the buttons on the phone. As he rounded the corner of the building he pressed number three twice and hit enter.

  Five seconds later panic set in. Nothing had happened! He stared at the phone, noticing
for the first time that the small icon for service availability was not blinking as it should be doing. There was no reception. He entered the speed-dial sequence again. Still nothing!

  He needed to get to a landline. Maybe the receiver would accept an alternative-routed signal.

  Chapter 43

  THE TERRIFIED LOOK on the face that began to take shape in the lens of the Hensoldt binoculars told Devon everything he needed to know - the man behind the wheel of the Maid of Inishfree was most definitely not Carl Stratton. Even allowing for a make-up artist’s skill and imagination, the base blueprint of this figure was all wrong. The head was about twice the size of Stratton’s and disappeared into square shoulders, seemingly without the need of a neck to hold it in place. The shock of unkempt white hair, which covered the face and plunged headlong into a sharp point somewhere about the waistline, looked too outrageous to be anything other than natural.

  Something else was also apparent. Judging by the pained facial contortions and the frantic arm-wrestling contest with the ship’s wheel, the man in the small bridge compartment was not in control of his vessel!

  It took Devon only a few seconds to process what he was seeing. Somehow Stratton was piloting the boat from a remote location. Not too remote, Devon reasoned. He had to be somewhere in close proximity, a vantage point from where he could directly affect what was happening out there on the Thames.

  Five minutes earlier, Devon’s Range Rover had roared onto Westminster Bridge in time to watch the cruiser start its sharp U-turn. He had grabbed the binoculars, leapt from the vehicle, and leaned against the stone parapet, frantically adjusting the telephoto lens to magnify the small window area sitting amidships on a two-meter platform above the deck.

  He was about to start a sweep of the shore in search of Stratton when he saw the two marine boats take up a blockade position directly below where he was standing. The river cruiser nonchalantly elbowed them aside and tore under the bridge. Devon raced to the other side to watch it reappear in clear water.

  When the boat made a sharp turn to starboard Devon gasped in horror at what was now in front of it. Jesus, he’s attacking the Palace of Westminster!

  He tore his eyes away from the Maid to scrutinise the opposite bank. The only building of note was the St Thomas Hospital, a six-storey glass and brick edifice that hugged the river’s perimeter and provided an ideal vantage point for anyone wanting to monitor what was happening.

  Devon hoisted the binoculars and began a slow sweep of the building, starting at a rooftop veranda and traversing the full extent of the frontage.

  Left to right.

  Right to left.

  Down a level.

  Left to right again.

  Sunlight glinting off the glass made it impossible to distinguish shapes. In frustration, he lowered the glasses to ground level and began a perimeter sweep along the tree-lined fence. Nothing was out of place.

  He was halfway through a second sweep of the fence when he spotted movement. He trained the binoculars at a shadowy spot between two thorn bushes. Yes, there was someone there!

  A crashing noise on the river made Devon turn away from the shoreline. He saw the Maid thrashing and disgorging passengers and knew she had hit some kind of barricade. He forced himself to ignore her plight and focussed again on the disturbance within the treeline.

  He was just in time to see a man emerge from the thicket and run towards the maze of buildings dotted around the interior of the site. There was only a fleeting sidefaced glimpse of the fugitive, but it was all Devon needed.

  The black beanie and the addition of thick-rimmed glasses couldn’t disguise the way the man carried himself, moving in long easy strides with a singularity of purpose.

  The running man was Carl Stratton!

  Stratton retraced his path back through the outside buildings and headed straight for the main hospital entrance. He dashed into the foyer and strode up to a long receptionist counter where more than a dozen people manned telephones or were engrossed in images from computer screens. To his left was a busy waiting area for patients, many of whom were straddling chairs and holding on to crutches, no doubt awaiting their turn for a visit to the fracture clinic.

  A young woman in her early twenties glanced up as Stratton banged his fist on the countertop. “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I need an outside line and I need it now!” he yelled.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you can’t just barge in here and…….”

  Stratton’s hand disappeared into his jacket. The woman blanched when she saw the snub-nosed Beretta pointing directly at her forehead. Stratton snarled at her. “Give me the fucking phone.”

  The general buzz around the room fell silent as heads turned to watch the commotion. The woman began sobbing as she pushed a handset onto the counter, the plastic base beating a tattoo from her shaking hands.

  A security guard approached and put his hand on Stratton’s shoulder. The man didn’t have a chance to utter a challenge. Stratton swept the gun barrel mercilessly across the guard’s cheek, the forward sight-ridge raking a trail of blood from his ear to the tip of his chin. The hapless victim staggered backwards and collapsed unconscious onto the tiled floor.

  Screams punctuated the air and people began running for the exits. One man forgot about his crutches and hobbled painfully in a slow foot-encased drag away from the danger.

  Stratton ignored the rumpus, pulled out the scribbled mobile-number note, and began attacking the desktop telephone buttons. He waited patiently for the system to accept the sequence and produce the familiar dialling tone bleeps, the final number announced by the sound of what appeared to be a connection.

  His anticipation of a thunderous roar across the Thames was destroyed by a tinny voice: “It has not been possible to connect your call. Please try again later.”

  He hurled the telephone into a huddle of hospital workers cowering behind the counter and turned to gaze in fury through the main front window. People were running and limping up the four-hundred-yard stretch of road leading to a gated entrance where an ambulance had just swept into the driveway. Behind its flashing lights he could see two black Range Rovers roar to a sideways stop, providing an effective barricade to any other vehicles entering or leaving the site.

  He knew exactly what was happening. As if to confirm his worst fears, eight people leapt from the vehicles and took up defensive positions behind parked cars. Two of the group stepped out and advanced down the driveway.

  Stratton’s eyes widened in shock. The tall figure at the front was Mike Devon!

  There was no time to process the hows and whys. He could stand there for hours trying to figure out what had led them to him so quickly. In the end it didn’t matter. What mattered was getting to hell out of here.

  He lifted the Beretta, unscrewed the noise-suppressor, and fired three times into the ceiling. He wanted the shots to be heard, he needed to create pandemonium. He turned to the remaining staff members. “Everyone out!”

  It started as a nervous trickle, but quickly developed into a full-blown stampede for the exit door. Some people slipped and fell, others banged into the glass frontage, sending shards of glass tumbling to the floor. It was mob rule, survival of the fittest.

  Stratton tucked the pistol into his waistband and pulled his sweater over the butt. Then he removed his hat, coat and spectacles, before crossing quickly to lift a pair of discarded crutches. He moved with such speed that he easily caught up with the mass of bodies still struggling through the exit.

  Chapter 44

  THE SOUND OF GUNFIRE flooded Devon with mixed emotions. While he was grateful for confirmation that Stratton was still in the vicinity, the risk he posed to the public was not something to be overlooked for a second. Maybe it would be best to simply bottle him up and let SO19 or the SAS take it from here.

  The sight of people running from the building changed the dynamics. Devon recognised it for what it was – a diversionary tactic, the creation of pandemonium to mask
an escape attempt. He knew Stratton had no intention of staying behind.

  It had taken Devon less than four minutes to whistle up his second team and get both vehicles back across the bridge to the hospital entrance. He ordered Mortimer, Carlisle, Hunt and Cross to remain outside the gates while he joined Doyle, Horgan and Cheadle inside the compound. He watched the first of the crowd emerge from the entrance and reached a decision. “I’m going down there. The rest of you, stay put.”

  He had just made a few strides before realising that Doyle was walking beside him. “Don’t you ever take orders?”

  “Why should you have all the fun?”

  Devon’s intended reply was cut short by a three-round burst from within the hospital building as another group of people burst out through the main doors. “He’s making a run for it! He’ll try to hide himself among the crowd.”

  Doyle turned back to his team at the entrance. “Check everyone going through your cordon. Nobody gets past without a full screening.”

  People flew past Devon in all directions. He swept his eyes frantically from face to face, but was constantly bumped and barged by the onrush of terrified bodies. He tried to look ahead, but his view was blocked.

  The ambulance, which had earlier pulled up to the left of the entrance, was now moving off again, the driver no doubt sensing this was not a place to be setting down his patient. The back door swung open as it accelerated away from the chaos.

  Something about the scene was not quite right!

  Stratton did his best to hunker down on the crutches and look helpless as he squeezed through the doorway. He spotted the ambulance parked to his right at the kerbside, the driver already standing on the footpath wondering what the commotion was all about. He was about to find out.