Shard broke in: his earlier visit to the US Embassy had been very fruitful. “I’ve been looking up the records and studying figures. I’ve concentrated on America, land of the Fast Breeder Reactor. The United States Atomic Energy Commission has been getting in a panic over disappearances during the last year or so — portable containers have been stolen from plants holding stocks of fissionable material such as refined plutonium. There’s plenty of that around, produced by neutron bombardments of Uranium 238 in the Fast Breeders. As I dare say you know, the Fast Breeder produces more plutonium than it burns uranium, which is why it’s called the Fast Breeder. And I think we all know, too, that the difficulty in producing a nuclear explosion lies in actually making the fissionable material. Given that, any schoolboy with an adequate knowledge of physics and chemistry can make the bomb itself —”
“But —”
“One moment, Mr Partington. After the last Arab-Israeli dust-up, the AEC got its General Accounting Office to check security — just in case, and this is I believe relevant, some of its stocks could have reached the Middle East —”
“And had they?”
Shard said, “We don’t know. But we do know the GAO found that overall security, though good on the surface, was as full of flaws as a dog of fleas — I won’t go into detail but the GAO investigators took just half a minute to cut their way into the steel-walled building where the containers were stored. No one knows where the leak about that occurred, but the reports I’ve read indicate that before security could be tightened, a frightening quantity of their fissionable materials was in fact stolen. And I say again, it doesn’t take much know-how to make up something with the blast power of what the Americans used to flatten Hiroshima: you even have a choice, as a matter of fact — the refined plutonium, or enriched uranium, no more than would go easily into a conventional suit-case … not a remarkable piece of equipment on the London underground!”
“But the handling dangers — the radiation, the gamma rays —”
“I understand,” Shard interrupted, “that three casing layers take care of that virtually 100 percent: lead, biological concrete, more lead. The protection is in fact 99.9 percent.”
Hedge massaged his chin. “All this … you’re speaking basically of America,” he said in a disparaging tone.
“I am, Hedge. There’s plenty of traffic between America and the Middle East, and between America and London. It’s not in isolation. Terrorism’s spreading, terrorists are proliferating —”
“We’re concerned with one group only, Shard.”
“Check. But they’re part of the whole. They’re amateurs, but we know there’s a degree of co-ordination, a kind of clearinghouse if you like. There could be central stock-holders — probably somewhere in the Middle East.”
“But these people in particular — there’s no American connexion?”
“Not that we know of,” Shard said. “Nazarrazeen’s not known there — not under that name, and nothing’s come in from the description. But we still don’t know the names of the others.”
There was a silence, broken by Assistant Commissioner Hesseltine. “So what do we do? Ideas, Hedge?”
Hedge lifted his arms helplessly, let them drop again. Shard came in: “We regard the under-river sections as the most likely —”
“But not exclusively so.” This was Hedge.
“I didn’t say that, Hedge. Full security, all over. But with a very special awareness about the river.” Shard turned to Partington. “I’ll need a very full briefing,” he said. “Let’s start with antidotes, shall we? Do you in fact have any anti-flood system? Has this kind of thing ever been considered?”
Partington shook his head. “We’ve never thought in terms of a blow-out from inside, no. But there was the war, of course —”
“The bombing?”
“Yes. The powers that were, had certain anxieties about the possible effects of ordinary bombing —”
“Germaine to this?”
Partington nodded. “Yes. They were worried about direct flooding from the river if the tunnels should be breached. You’ll remember people used the underground stations as shelters during the blitz.”
“Yes. So?”
“Action was taken to contain any flooding — or try to. In the event it never happened —”
“What action?”
“Watertight doors,” Partington said. “They still exist. The tunnels can be closed off at either end. It’s cumbersome, but it’s said to work.”
“Quickly? How quickly, from the first alarm?”
“Inside thirty seconds.”
“Fast,” Shard said. “But probably not fast enough. Don’t forget the vital point: this is going to come from inside, not out. It’s a big difference. How vulnerable is the closing mechanism, Mr Partington?”
Partington said heavily, “It very likely wouldn’t stand up to what we’ve been talking about, but I thought it worth mentioning.”
Absently, Shard nodded: the watertight doors didn’t sound too useful. Any terrorist worth his salt would have taken the trouble to case what looked like being the biggest joint of all time. Partington filled in the gaps: all details were confined to the Top Secret files, but the value of that was highly doubtful: too many people worked in the system, and there was no longer the moral wartime clamp on careless talk that might cost lives: and less reputable citizens could talk for gain. If the river tunnels were to be the target, the watertight doors would have ways around them, and not only for the rushing floodwater: if they were thought to be not susceptible to the main explosion, they could presumably have their own personal and smaller charges set in place. There had been — what? — four men, according to Tom Casey, to carry the explosives. And of course there could be more than one main attack area, too. Shard went into the operational set-up of London Transport: time tables, frequencies in and out of the rush hours. It was a complex, dovetailing business and would call for detailed study as soon as possible, but for now Partington’s general statement of timing sufficed: a train every two-and-a-half to three minutes during rush hours, every four to five minutes in the slack times. The tunnels in the river bed sections were of twelve-foot-six diameter; and the construction was of cast-iron segments bolted into a ring built up within a shield, the space between the cast iron and London’s clay layer being filled by the in-pumping of a 100 cement-and-sand grout. There was plenty of room for an explosion to spread and dissipate: the result could still be unacceptably high casualties, but the lateral spread might well save the walls of the chosen tunnel or tunnels …
“All this,” Hedge said reasonably enough, “pre-supposes that they do mean to breach the river-tunnel. And that, we don’t know!”
“Agreed,” Shard said wearily: his head ached badly, like a ticking bomb itself. Hedge had produced whisky, but too meanly for decent effects: they were all flying on one wing. “As I said, I’m working just on the assumption — until we get something harder, anyway.”
“But they’d know about this — this lateral dissipation,” Hedge insisted, moving restlessly about by the fireplace. “They’d know it and go for something simpler — for plain casualties along a crowded platform, anywhere else in the system — not something with such difficulties —”
“I don’t agree. They did talk of tamping, Hedge, packing the explosion tightly, if you remember my report — very specific, they were.”
“They can’t tamp a twelve-foot tunnel!” Hedge snapped.
“Not easily, I agree. I’m keeping an open mind, Hedge.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Hedge, reluctantly, moved towards the whisky decanter. “What do you propose to do, my dear fellow?”
Shard said, “I’d like to … thanks, Hedge.”
Hedge had poured one finger. “Like to what?”
“Do a survey of my own, Hedge.”
“Of the underground itself, d’you mean?” Hedge stood with the decanter poised towards Hesseltine. “I suggest, the sooner the better.”<
br />
“Right away, if Mr Partington will act as guide,” Shard said. “Night time’s the only chance we’ll get — unless the Prime Minister can be persuaded to shut down the system.”
Hedge made an angry ejaculation; as he did so the study door opened and his wife came in wearing a quilted dressing-gown. Politely, the men got to their feet: Shard, who had met Mrs Hedge before, wondered wickedly if even she called Hedge Hedge. Hedge looked irritated at the sight of her. In a tight voice he said, “Yes, dear?”
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she began. She was fairly sexless, with straggly grey bedtime hair and a heavy face, a bovine manner: but she was well-connected, which was maybe why Hedge had married her — there were earls in the background, somewhere, and stately homes to provide rest for work-weary Hedges when occasion demanded. “He needs his sleep,” she said, smiling an apology at the others, who responded with vaguely sympathetic murmurs.
Hedge put down the decanter. “I won’t be long, dear. It’s not that late anyway. If I were you, I’d go to bed,” he added crossly, looking embarrassed. Mrs Hedge smiled around the study again and drifted off, but her visitation had had its effect, had come between Hedge and the consideration of the national interest: he didn’t say so, but he wanted them all to go. Shard glanced at Partington, who nodded: the guide was willing. Hedge, however, had one more thing to say.
“Shard, there’s the question of Larger. If he would talk, all the corners could be cut.”
“How I agree!” Shard said, “But for the time being, we’ve lost him, haven’t we?”
Hedge pursed his lips, looked down at the floor. “I wouldn’t say so entirely, no.”
“You want me to put the boot in, Hedge? Into a sick-room?”
“Well …”
“Doctors are doctors, they have the final say. In any case, I don’t like it.”
“There’s more than Larger’s life at stake, Shard. Just think about it.” After that, the dismissal was clear and obvious: they left singly to Hedge’s instructions, Hesseltine by the front door. Shard, walking down to Sloane Street, hailed a passing taxi. He was dropped by the Ritz Hotel; when the taxi drove off he walked on to Piccadilly Circus tube station. He waited: there were still plenty of people around, he knew he wouldn’t stand out too much. Waiting, he thought about Larger: Hedge was being a right bastard again, but maybe a right bastard — in another sense. You couldn’t be squeamish when a whole metropolitan population was potentially at stake, and Larger was hardly worth much consideration. And the imminence of death could prove a loosener of tongues — could. When the sword was poised, men changed — or so it was said. They might decide it was a pleasant thing after all, to sit on the right hand of God the Father Almighty. Not that Larger, porn merchant plus, was likely to have got religion in any really big way …
Shard, coming back to Piccadilly, felt an eye upon him: a sharply curious eye beneath a blue helmet, slowly moving in. He cursed, wished Partington would hurry with his master keys and his authorisations, the wherewithal to enter London’s night-shut underground — which, right here, was much too suggestive of a public lavatory.
The blue helmet stopped; hands behind back, portly stomach rising and falling upon lifting heels, the intrusive copper probed. “May I ask your business, sir?”
Shard said, “No, you may not. But I’m not a pouf and I’m not importuning.” Just at the wrong moment, Partington came along Piccadilly like approaching an assignation, and Shard fumed: just in case of accidents, Hedge’s people didn’t normally carry official identification. This could take time.
*
The call from Hesseltine brought Hedge out of bed at seven thirty, eyes crusted with sleep and Mrs Hedge a motionless mountain left isolated in linen. “Hedge. What is it?”
“Hesseltine. Two news items. Ready?”
“Oh, get on with it!”
“Your man almost got arrested for importuning for immoral purposes —”
“Great God!”
“— but that was sorted out. The other’s not so easy: Larger.”
“Well?”
“A team of white coats … very medical, very Sir Lancelot Spratt.” A pause: Hesseltine liked drama. “Larger’s dead, stone cold. So is a sister. And a registrar. And another DC. The weapon used was a scalpel, right to the heart in each case. And another patient dead from shock. No clues of any sort, one scalpel left behind but clean of prints — rubber gloves, of course. There’s something else, something you won’t like.”
“Tell me.” Hedge’s voice was showing the strain.
“The Press has got hold of it, Hedge.”
“Oh, no!” Panic sounded: the Press was Hedge’s mortal enemy, the signal set for failure. “I’ll put the stopper on — I’ll get —”
“Too late. It happened in good time for the Late News, Stop Press, whatever your newspaper likes to call it. Go down to breakfast and have a look.”
“I will. Look, what are these people after? Haven’t you any ideas?”
There was a laugh. “Your job, is that. What springs to mind is some sort of national blackmail, and that’s almost too obvious to state.”
The line was cut. Hedge stood trembling with indecision.
Eleven
Walking the silent underground had been the eeriest of night experiences: an empty station, closed booking hall with shuttered windows, the escalators motionless, the girls in scanty underwear staring from unappreciated adverts, showing their almost all to the desert air. Voices, kept lowered as though in church, tended to echo even so. Shard and Partington, after an infuriating visit to West End Central nick, walked down the escalator one behind the other, waited on the dim platform for the arrival of the maintenance gang’s train that would take them to Charing Cross. The train’s racket was heard long before its arrival, a weirdly rising sound in the stillness. It cascaded in, stopped to take the two passengers aboard: workmen of London Transport stared without much interest, carrying their meal-tins and thermos flasks of tea, bags of tools on oily seats beside them, air thick with smoke. Discreetly Shard studied the faces: like the rest of workaday London, all colours from Tide white to deepest black, but no one who looked like the Middle East. That didn’t have to mean much: Shard tried not to think that what was going to happen, could happen tonight. They rattled on, swaying, not talking now. The train decanted them at Charing Cross, along with some of the maintenance men, then roared away into the tunnel. The gangs dispersed about their business and Shard followed Partington towards a locked telephone box. The security man opened it up and made a brief call.
Ringing off and leaving the box unlocked, he said, “They’ll call back when the current’s off.”
“No more workmen’s trains?”
Partington shook his head. “Not on this section.”
They waited: a long wait — Partington said, until the train they’d come in had cleared the length of track that would be affected by the power cut-off. When the confirming call came, the jangle shattered the silence horribly. Partington answered, acknowledged, re-locked the box.
“All safe, Mr Shard.”
Down onto the line, along the track: Shard remembered the traditional advice to drunks: don’t pee on the live rail. Walking close, trousers touching from time to time, he shivered. If and when the blow-up came, if it was what he feared, killing doses of power were going to be water-borne like lightning along the system before someone cut the supply.
Into the tunnel, into thick, thick darkness sliced by a powerful beam from Partington’s workmanlike torch. A stale smell, a smell of metal and grime and damp: they moved on, stumbling over the rails of the four foot eight-and-a-half inch gauge: two conductor rails, in the centre a negative that was nominally at 220 volts below neutral, at the side of the track a positive, nominally at 440 volts above neutral; the negative rail was held on the centre of the jarrahwood sleepers by porcelain insulators, the positive being held in insulators on special wooden blocks sunk into the concrete that on the deep trac
ks took the place of the ballast used in the open sections and in the sub-surface tunnels of such lines as the District. The running rails, Partington said, were delivered in 6o-foot lengths and welded into 300-foot sections at the Fulham depot, where a flash-butt welding machine was used. The live rails were in up to half-mile lengths: traction current was collected by top contact on supply from sub-stations linked by 33kW cables to Lots Road, Greenwich and Neasden, the London Transport power stations. As they went along Partington talked of the system’s complexity, of the criss-cross pattern, the varying levels, of the intricacies of the signalling devices and controls — the automation, the two-aspect colour lights and train stops, de-energised track circuits, route control, coded track circuits using pulses of four frequencies to regulate speed, apply emergency brakes and re-start trains.
“How about telephone communication?” Shard asked.
“From driver to controller?”
“Yes. Wires, isn’t it?”
Partington said, “Wires, yes. Emergency use … the driver reaches out — there’s a pair of wires running along the walls — he just nips them together, that causes a short that sounds the alarm at the substation and cuts the juice. Then the driver hitches on his portable telephone, and says what he has to say. If he wants to bypass the substation and speak direct to the controller he can similarly connect up his permanent telephone — that’s also in the cab — and use the radio frequency carrier waves —”
“Not true radio communication?”
“No. That’s not practicable, not inside the iron tubes.” Partington went on to talk of other things, the lurking things with equal rights beneath London’s surface, things Shard already had much in mind: sewers, electricity cables, gas mains, fresh water pipes, a whole nerve-centre jumble that sustained the life of the capital. But essentially, that problem had been faced many, many times in the war: plain surface bombs also dug deep into the spider’s-web of mains services, the mod cons of sophisticated living. They were important, but they were not people.
A Very Big Bang Page 11