by D C Alden
They reached Whitehall a moment later, the suffocating heat left behind them. Bryce slipped from Mac’s grasp and fell. Slowly he pulled himself up, his mind struggling to comprehend the scale of the damage. Whitehall was covered in debris, the asphalt road barely visible under a carpet of wreckage; huge chunks of masonry, twisted metal, a sea of shattered glass glinting in the firelight. Vehicles lay abandoned in the street, their doors flung open in haste, the nearest ones overturned and engulfed in flames. Bodies littered the scene like piles of sack cloth, some limbless, some half-buried, torn and shredded clothing, bags, footwear – the detritus of instant havoc wreaked upon an unsuspecting populace surrounded Bryce. Even the streetlamps had been decapitated by the blast.
Then Mac was at his side again, yanking him upright by the armpits, cursing, pushing him away from the burning TV vehicles, from the inferno of the Foreign Ministry. Thick smoke swirled and eddied on the evening breeze, the air tainted with the stench of burning rubber. Bryce could taste it in his mouth, on his tongue. He heard a shout, then a scream that echoed around the shattered buildings. The sound unnerved him. His eyes bulged in fear.
‘Keep moving!’ Mac shouted.
‘Which way?’
The smoke seemed to be getting thicker, a choking black ceiling above them. A dark shape loomed out of the smoke from behind a burning police car. The man hopped past them muttering angrily, his leg missing below the knee. His hair was singed off and his clothing shredded, exposing more wounds that leaked a frightening volume of blood. Before either of them could react the man had disappeared, lost behind a veil of smoke.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Bryce whispered.
Mac grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly. ‘We can’t help him. Just keep moving.’
Bryce felt himself being dragged forward again. He had no strength left, his legs like iron weights, his lungs devoid of oxygen. His head swam. All he wanted to do now was lie down, just for a minute. He couldn’t go on, couldn’t take another step. He was about to let go of Mac’s hand when another sound reached his ears, the sound of a distant siren, getting louder, penetrating the fog of his mind. He felt Mac’s hand tighten and suddenly the smoke parted like a curtain before them.
A sea of blue and red lights stretched across Whitehall, filling Parliament Square and washing the Houses of Parliament in colourful strobes. Dozens of figures raced towards them, silhouetted against the lights, the sound of their running feet rising to a crescendo, a stampede of salvation. Bryce sank to his knees, exhausted, the relief almost palpable. He felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up. Mac’s hair was matted with filth, his face streaked with soot. The smile carved through the dirt, through the blood and grime.
‘Here comes the cavalry,’ he grinned, all traces of anxiety gone from his voice. ‘About bloody time, eh?’
Bryce tried to laugh but it caught in his throat. Tears streaked through the dirt and then the uniforms were on them like a wave. Urgent hands reached down for him, lifting him bodily off the ground, moving him swiftly away from the flames and the rumble of collapsing masonry. His senses were assaulted, the acrid smell of burning, the garbled chatter of radio transmissions, the multitude of voices jabbering in an unintelligible chorus around him. Sirens wailed and helicopters buzzed somewhere above. He felt suddenly claustrophobic, hemmed in by a scrum of uniforms, medical green and police black, the cold contact of their clothing abrasive against his raw flesh. Some held Perspex shields overhead, protecting him from further assault, like a cohort of Roman Legionnaires surrounding their wounded General. Bryce was a rag doll in their hands. His head lolled back and he stared upwards, beyond the helmets and visors, the ring of screaming voices and anxious faces, up to where a faint dusting of stars glittered in the night sky. He thought it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
The sirens grew louder and blue and red strobes pulsed brightly, lighting the scene with their flickering luminance. He felt himself being lowered onto a stretcher, then lifted again, and slid inside an ambulance. Doors slammed and paramedics in masks and clear plastic glasses loomed over him, slicing the clothes from his body. They tore the dressing from his head, the cotton from his mouth, wiping and swabbing, checking pressures and pupils and beats per minute. They swayed in unison as the vehicle headed away from Whitehall at speed, engine roaring, sirens clearing the way. He stared up at the ceiling, at the alien beings that surrounded him, peering, probing, puncturing his skin with drips and needles and other medicines.
Slowly Bryce began to relax. He’d live, of that much he was certain. Sure, he was sliced and diced, battered and bruised, but he sensed there was nothing dangerously wrong. The paramedics, in their cold and frighteningly impersonal language, confirmed it. Bryce could tell by the reduced speed of their industry, the soothing words and smiles.
He let the motion of the ambulance calm his shattered nerves. He’d survived. And it was all thanks to one man.
Saeed and Hooper were locked in intense discussion when a commotion from the corridor suddenly filled the room. There were shouts of excitement as a large group of suits and uniforms spilled through the double doors, Commissioner Chapman at their head. Saeed recognised most of the civilians, Labour MPs and party apparatchiks, their assistants weighed down with folders and paperwork. The word had gone out, the ruling classes drawn to the new hub of power. He watched Chapman march towards the window, braided cap tucked beneath his armpit. He was breathless, the words tumbling from his mouth.
‘He’s alive! The Prime Minister has been found!’
Faces beamed around the room. Saeed heard a sob of relief, saw the unbridled joy on the faces of the underlings. Some of the women hugged each other, others dabbing moist eyes with balled-up tissues. He regarded them with barely disguised contempt, stifling his own personal roar of frustration. ‘What’s his condition?’ he snapped.
The policeman’s smile faded. ‘It’s serious, multiple injuries. They’re taking him to King Edward the Seventh. It’ll be a while before we know any more.’
‘Any other survivors?’ Hooper inquired, his arms folded behind his back. ‘Senior people?’
‘Most of the buildings in Downing Street have suffered severe damage and the place is an inferno. It doesn’t look hopeful,’ Chapman warned.
‘In that case, we’re still in crisis,’ Hooper reminded them.
‘There’s more,’ the Commissioner continued. He handed a folder to Hooper. The Defence Minister gave Chapman a quizzical look then flicked open the cover, glancing through the thick sheaf of eight by ten colour stills.
‘Our first breakthrough,’ the policeman explained, quiet excitement in his voice.
Hooper arched a bushy eyebrow. ‘Already?’
‘This man was captured on surveillance cameras at the Luton mosque yesterday morning. He delivered a large container, an industrial refrigeration unit we think.’
‘I thought the mosque was destroyed?’ Hooper said.
‘I’m afraid that’s the case,’ confirmed Chapman, ‘but the security feeds were backed-up off site. Counter Terrorism Command tracked the vehicle back to London via its GPS. Local CCTV shows the suspect used a pushbike to leave the area. We lost him near Paddington.’
Saeed glanced over Hooper’s shoulder, saw Daniel Morris Whelan glaring directly into the camera lens, the smudge of a tattoo on his neck. ‘That artwork looks distinctive. Do we know who he is?’
‘We’re running the images through facial recognition and a team is trying to secure DNA evidence from the vehicle. It’s a matter of time.’
‘What about the Downing Street bomb?’
‘A different matter,’ Chapman explained. ‘Judging from the small amount of aerial footage we’ve been able to view, the crater suggests a car bomb, which means the vehicle was an official one. Somehow the terrorists gained access to Whitehall. The Downing Street security system has been destroyed so we’ll have to interrogate the Whitehall feeds. Again, it’s a matter of time.’
‘An inside job,�
�� Saeed concluded.
Chapman gave a curt nod. ‘Without doubt.’
Hooper passed the folder back to the policeman. ‘Use every available resource you have, Commissioner. Minister Saeed is acting Deputy Prime Minister, so you will liaise with him in future. I want these bastards flushed out.’
The room had filled with people again, the news of Bryce’s survival injecting the air with the hum of quiet optimism. Every seat around the conference table was now filled and human traffic in and out of the room gathered apace as messengers made up for the lack of cell phone coverage. Saeed’s mind drifted, again wondering how Bryce had survived. The van’s floor and side panels were packed with military grade explosive, every nook and crevice, every void and space. The vehicle’s suspension had been specially modified to take the extra weight, the driver a Christian convert who’d yearned for Paradise. The van was directly outside Number Ten when it detonated, but Bryce had slipped away a moment before, a problem with his speech. Despite that, despite the years of structural strengthening and fortifications, Number Ten had folded like a house of cards in the ensuing blast. Saeed had monitored the live transmission from his ministerial car until the picture from the press conference had disappeared in a storm of static. Even he had been momentarily unnerved by the sheer force of the blast, the tremor that rocked the armoured vehicle, the debris that rained down on the roof, the rolling dust cloud that engulfed Parliament Square. Yet Bryce had survived, an eventuality he’d forced himself to consider. And plan for.
He studied the faces around him, the streams of officials that were now pressing into the Emergency Management Centre. There were more MPs now, military men in dustcovered uniforms, Commissioner Chapman and a host of other senior police officers, EU delegates and their assistants. Even the Director-General of the BBC, plus board members from Sky, Reuters and Bloomberg had been summoned. If a bomb went off in this room the country really would be in trouble, mused Saeed. He watched Hooper acknowledge the new arrivals, saw his eyes register the size and importance of the growing audience. He leaned into the Defence Minister’s ear. ‘Jacob, you should say something.’
‘You’re right.’ Hooper buttoned his jacket, brushing the dust from its flanks and lapels. Saeed gestured for the heavy wooden doors to be closed and the chatter in the room faded to silence as Hooper cleared his throat loudly. Behind Hooper, beyond the glass wall, the sky to the north glowed a deep red.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are in the grip of a crisis as unique as it is terrifying. Whitehall has been decimated by a bomb, as has the Luton central mosque.’ Some of the new arrivals gasped in disbelief. Saeed studied their faces, expressions and emotions that ranged from fear and uncertainty to outright shock. ‘Casualties are unknown at this time,’ continued Hooper, ‘but the death toll is expected to be considerable.’
‘We must act!’ screamed the MP for Solihull, standing behind the conference table to Hooper’s right. He thumped the wooden surface with a balled fist. ‘The full weight of the law must bear down on these vile racists!’ A murmur of agreement rippled around the table of politicians and Hooper acknowledged them with a grin nod.
‘My Right Honourable colleague is correct. Something must be done to combat the deadly threat we face, and I can tell you now that evidence is already beginning to emerge. From the Luton incident we have a face, and a vehicle, and soon we will have a name. Now, it’s obvious that the clear intention of these terrorists was to decapitate the government and spark civil and religious unrest. They have failed on the first count and we must work hard on the second to ensure that our communities are protected, that the ambitions of these murderous bigots are thwarted and each and every one of them is brought swiftly to justice.’ Hooper paused for a moment, as if searching for the right words. Saeed sensed the building tension, the fear that was so obvious a few minutes ago slowly turning towards determined anger.
‘We have to protect what remains of our government,’ Hooper boomed, his voice resonating like an operatic virtuoso. ‘In light of the severity of the situation and the condition of Prime Minister Bryce, President Dupont in Brussels, our own Lord Justices and the Duke of Cambridge himself have all endorsed my temporary status as head of government until the situation becomes clearer. I hope I can count on each and every one of you for your support.’
Saeed watched the back of Hooper’s head, the folds of flesh pressing together as his polished dome swept the room, his suspicious eyes seeking out possible dissenters. There were none. Saeed caught the mood amongst the audience, the subtle nodding, the resolute faces. Britain had lived with terrorism in many forms over the years and the spectre of a dangerous enemy within had always been firmly entrenched in the nation’s consciousness. Now it was taking shape once again, given form by the glowing wreckage beyond the window, the bodies that lined the pavement in Luton, the CCTV images of persons unknown.
Saeed saw Anna Reid, the Solicitor General, press through the crowd and pause before Hooper. She was a tall woman, thin, with collar-length black hair and a severe fringe. Her boss was missing somewhere amongst the rubble of Downing Street, which technically made her the acting Attorney General. Saeed believed that, for many in the room, the crisis also had its upside, a sudden promotion being the obvious and immediate benefit.
‘Jacob, I think I speak on behalf of the room when I say that you have our full and unequivocal support,’ gushed Reid.
‘Thank you, Anna,’ Hooper smiled, shaking her outstretched hand.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister.’
The words hung in the air, like an unfamiliar odour requiring immediate categorisation. Saeed watched the crowd for a reaction but there was no obvious one, simply a bovine acceptance of the situation. A camera flashed, the handshake a physical representation of the transition of power, captured for immediate dissemination to every media outlet across Europe. Saeed almost smiled; there was tomorrow’s front page right there. And by the time the sun rose, Bryce’s head might just as well have been found in a gutter. The King was dead, long live the King.
And there was something else too. In less than an hour Millbank had become a nexus of power, the new administrative heart of the country. Already, Downing Street and what it had represented was passing into memory, a moment of huge psychological significance for those around him. Soon there would be a scramble for desk space, with whole floors being hastily rearranged, while computer networks were reconfigured and new equipment filled the cargo elevator. Outside, the security cordon was tightening its grip around the building, the surrounding streets. Whitehall had been emptied, a sinking ship whose passengers sought the comfort and security of Millbank, desperate to be a part of the new government that was taking shape right before Saeed’s eyes.
The events of today would be met with approval in the east. In the private villa along the Turkish coast, in marbled halls across the Middle East, the men of power would talk favourably of Saeed and what he’d accomplished so far. There was still a long way to go, many years in fact before the plan came to full fruition, but, such was the speed of the power shift he’d witnessed today, that Saeed was now convinced he’d see it in his own lifetime. His heart almost sang at the thought of it, of the pride his children would feel, the esteem his name would be held in throughout the Ummah.
Only Bryce remained a problem. A sudden recovery, the resumption of power, the continued opposition to the Treaty of Cairo, all could tip the scales in the wrong direction. Bryce had to be sidelined, hindered, his name and reputation devalued to a point where he was no longer considered to have any meaningful input in a future administration. And it had to be done carefully, subtlety, so that the name of Gabriel Bryce became an uncomfortable and embarrassing topic of debate and discussion. Saeed already knew how, the necessary pieces already in place. The trick was to convince Hooper, who stood a few feet away, pumping hands and revelling in his new status.
Saeed finally allowed himself a careful smile as he joined in with the ripple of subdued applause. P
ower was such a corrupting influence, a drug that, once savoured, demanded to be fed. Hooper was already a junkie and Saeed felt it too, yet his rise to power had been engineered for a much higher purpose, a divine quest that rose above the sins of vanity and personal gain.
And Bryce stood in the way of that. But not for long.
North West London
Danny Whelan stood silently in the doorway of the kitchen, watching his father tackle a stack of dirty dishes. Like most of the other rooms in the old man’s twelfth-floor apartment, the kitchen was cramped and narrow, a single row of top and bottom kitchen units, an upright fridge, a stainless steel sink next to the window, all immaculately clean. The opposite wall was bare, except for a clock with old-fashioned numerals and a calendar. Danny glanced at the picture for September, a photograph of a turreted castle, the flag of St. George fluttering above its ramparts. The thick stone walls were framed by harsh, snow-capped peaks, the castle itself seemingly suspended in mid-air above a mist-covered field. Beneath the stirring image, the text read: Scenes of England, reproduced with kind permission for the English Freedom Movement. A familiar bitterness welled up in him then, a reminder of the legacy that the Movement had bestowed on him; a tattoo he generally kept covered and a calendar that would soon be out of date. But right now, those were the least of his problems.