by Tom Field
“I’m Gary Parker, cameraman,” the second guy uttered loudly; far louder than was necessary over the awkward silence which had fallen over all those in the small conference room.
Ward liked this guy instantly. He looked fit, in his early thirties and had short, ginger hair falling just shy of his strong shoulders. He was the only one in the room that had an honest look about him. Ward and Lawson both smiled their acknowledgment before taking seats at the table.
Next to him was the final unknown entity in the room; a tall, thin man with long hair and a thick beard that covered his whole face.
“I’m Gary Lewis,” he said in a helpful tone, “I’m the sound man,” he added, just as Reid clapped his hands together to turn the attention on himself.
“Right everyone; we have two hours of footage prior to the explosion. Gentlemen, would you like to see it from the start?” Reid asked, turning to Ward and Lawson.
“No,” Ward replied, “We have people looking at it now. Just show me the moment that the bomb went off.”
Reid picked up a remote control from the table and pointed it at the offensively large flat screen TV that filled the wall to their left. The screen crackled into life. The image was of Beglin applying her make up as the camera rolled with the Louvre standing magnificently in the background. A time stamp was positioned in the bottom right hand corner of the frame, reading 06:56. Reid quickly forwarded the footage to 08:54am.
“Any moment now gentlemen,” he declared.
Ward looked at the screen as Abbi Beglin detailed the impending exhibitions due to take place at the Louvre. He could make out the entrance to the Metro station positioned behind her. He focussed fully on the entrance, drowning out the sound of her voice. Eventually, the sound returned to his ears as a loud ‘boom’ echoed through the speakers. On the screen, Beglin’s shoulders hunched and her neck retracted into her body as the blast ripped out into the Paris streets. Immediately, the camera by-passed her and focussed on the Metro entrance. There was smoke billowing out of the entrance as people tore out of it. Some were screaming, others were crying, and a few were silent with shock.
The camera bounced up and down as Gary Parker ran to get closer to the action. More and more people were filing out of the station. When the clock in the bottom right hand corner hit 08:56, the first people to suffer injury came pouring out. One woman, carrying a young child in her arms, collapsed onto the floor cradling her child against her cheek. A small red speck on the child’s shirt rapidly increased in size until the material was sodden and the blood was pooling onto the floor. An elderly man in a suit had obviously just been out of range of the blast and had scald marks to his white shirt.
A young woman staggered out with blood pouring from her forehead. It wasn’t the blast that maimed or killed people; it was the flying objects and shrapnel.
They sat in silence and watched for a further six minutes as the injured were helped out and the emergency services poured in. Everyone sat there in silence. Lawson was the first to break it.
“That’s enough, turn it off will you? There’s nothing to be gained from watching these poor people suffer.”
Reid used the remote to pause the footage on the image of an unconscious middle-aged man being carried out by two women, his stomach torn to shreds by the shrapnel. One of the women was doing her best to keep his intestines from falling onto the pavement, but it was clear she was fighting a losing battle as they spilled out of the parts of the cavity her hands were too small to keep closed. Their faces were contorted in anguish. Ward studied the image closely. The girls couldn’t have been any older than twenty, and their close resemblance to the casualty told him that they were his daughters. After what seemed like an eternity, Reid turned off the tv, thinking better of leaving the image on the screen for the entirety of the meeting.
“Did you notice anything or anyone suspicious prior to the blast?” Lawson asked.
“Not really,” Reid remembered. “We tend to concentrate on the quality of work that we are producing and only on what the viewer sees.”
Lawson looked at Gary Parker, the cameraman, before firing a question at him.
“Why did you run towards the blast while everyone else was running away?”
“It’s my job. I had eight months in Afghanistan filming; I guess I’m kind of used to it. I know there’s sometimes a second blast, but I didn’t think anything of it,” Parker replied.
“Did any of you at any time see something that was out of place?” Lawson asked them all collectively.
“No,” Abbi Beglin said, “I think my reaction of surprise and fear shows that,” she added, twirling her hair at Lawson as she spoke. Ward cleared his throat loudly, and she quickly stopped and stared at her lap.
Lawson turned to Gary Lewis, the soundman, who answered before the question could even leave his lips.
“Definitely not,” he stated with authority.
“Any sounds that you might not have picked up at the time but have noticed since you reviewed the footage?” Lawson asked.
“No. Like everyone has said there was nothing. I’ve been over it at least six times to see if I can hear anything but there is nothing.”
“Is there anything that any of you can tell us that might help us find out who did this?” Lawson asked them collectively. His experience told him that someone must have seen something.
“There was nothing out of place,” Nigel Reid said. “I’ve produced thousands of news reports all over the world and I have a sense for when things aren’t right. Up until the moment of the explosion, there was nothing wrong at all.”
Ward had not spoken since saying that they were there to work. He closed his eyes as Reid’s words ‘”Nothing wrong at all,” played over and over in his ears. There was something very, very wrong that made no sense at all. It made every single hair on his body stand on end. It was clear that no one in the room apart from him had noticed it. Not even Lawson, who was usually the first to jump on anything out of the ordinary. The problem was that they had been in the room for just over ten minutes, and he knew that everyone in the room was telling the truth.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by the office door swinging open and a young woman, dressed in a smart black suit, ran in, looking like she had run a marathon. She looked at Nigel Reid and, with eyes wide open and little breath in her lungs, delivered the news,
“There has been another explosion, two minutes ago.”
Lawson looked at Ward with worry etched into his face.
“Where?” Reid asked with urgency in his voice.
“Outside Westminster Abbey,” she replied.
“What the hell are you doing still sitting here?! Get going. NOW!” Reid barked at the other three
“Sir, we already have a team there,” the breathless young woman said, “They were interviewing the Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport about the public funding required for the essential repairs to the Abbey.”
“Was it a live feed?” Reid asked.
“No,” she replied, “But they will be able to upload it as soon as we want it from the van.”
Reid looked at Ward and Lawson apologetically and said,
“I’m sorry gentlemen, but I have to go. See yourselves out.”
With that, the four UKBC employees left the room and Ward and Lawson were left alone to process what they had just been told.
“Not good,” Lawson said.
“Let’s go,” Ward ordered, “We’re going straight to Westminster; I want to look at something.”
SEVEN
Asif Fulken watched as the police and fire department vehicles sped past, their sirens shattering the early morning calm that was London before the throngs of people hit the street. He counted nine police cars and fourteen fire trucks in just three short minutes. He knew that due to the way the British valued their heritage and their iconic buildings, the authorities would be more worried about damage to their landmarks than any deaths their people might suffer. He s
till felt disappointed and cheated about the location of the bomb but consoled himself with the fact that another two million dollars had been earned. Two million for the Paris bombing, Two million for London and a further Two million for New York, plus the Four million dollar bonus, and he would be ten million dollars richer just for doing something that showed those elders at the FFW just how devastating losing him was. Definitely as great a loss as the land or power losses they had suffered throughout the region. It had been as simple as he had thought it was going to be.
The cab driver had arrived exactly at the time requested, 09:15, and he had two cases waiting with him. Both large suitcases of Burberry design. He had filled one with clothes and weights, and the other with his one hundred pound masterpiece. It was a very heavy case. Manageable to lift by someone like him, but not without making it obvious that he was struggling with an excessive weight, and more importantly, it needed to be handled with care. So he made sure, he was waiting at the bottom of the steps to the hotel in Argyle Street with the suitcase that contained the bomb when the cab driver arrived. He watched the driver park and open the trunk. He was a short, stout man in his fifties with a completely bald head and thick arms that were covered in awful looking, worn tattoos. He knew that this man was probably in the forces years ago; looking at the tattoos he was displaying, and so his death would be another bonus
“Taxi for Mr Ramos,” the driver said
“That’s me,” Fulken said in a deliberately camp way adding an over exaggerated Spanish ring to his English words.
“Just the one case is it Guv?” the driver asked.
“There is another up there in the foyer mister, the same pattern as this one, but it’s a little heavy for me, so could you get it please, and I’ll put this one in,” he asked, pointing to the entrance of the hotel. Fulken had placed the other suitcase inside at the far side of the hotel foyer, to buy him a few more seconds.
“No worries Chief,” the driver said, and started to head up the stairs to the hotel entrance.
He lifted the case with both hands and moved slowly across to the cab, checking that the driver was out of sight before using all of his strength to lift the suitcase up onto his knees and position it against the car fender, before using his knees and hands to slide the suitcase in flat, and then finally clicking the receiver switch on the handle, which was disguised as a lock. By the time the driver came out of the hotel struggling with the other suitcase, he was standing five feet away from the vehicle lighting a cigarette.
“What the bloody hell have you got in here?” the driver asked, by now looking very red in the face.
“My boyfriend loves his shoes and outfits,” Fulken replied in his camp tone. This was enough to put an end to the conversation between the two of them.
He checked his watch and saw that it was now nine eighteen am. He had three minutes to waste
“So, my partner has hardly any time to spare and you will be collecting him outside Westminster Abbey at exactly nine thirty as agreed yes?” Fulken asked.
“Yes Guv,” the driver replied.
“I will give you a bonus of fifty pounds to get him to the airport on time too.”
The driver’s eyes lit up. A massive cab fare to the airport and a fifty pound bonus, and that was without any tip the guy he collected might give him. A great morning’s work.
Fulken took his time getting his wallet out, pulled out three twenty pounds and one ten pound note and then approached the driver,
“I have put another twenty pounds in there for your added discretion,” he said, deliberately looking coy, “My friend has a partner, a woman actually, and she wouldn’t be very pleased if she knew he was going off with me for a few days when he is meant to be on a business trip, and she will be at his meeting with him, so the extra twenty is to ensure that you do not get there before nine thirty and be hanging around, because she might be loitering. Is that OK?” Fulken asked.
“Whatever tickles your fancy Guv,” the driver said, “Each to their own, I say. Don’t worry I will pull up at nine thirty on the nose and if I see a woman going loopy, I will drive off!”
“Thank you, so kind,” Fulken responded. He glanced at his watch. It was nine twenty one. “Off you go, don’t want to be late,” he added.
“Will do Guv,” the driver replied.
He watched the driver pull away and thought to himself, what a fool, so simple, so trusting. He deserves all he gets.
He walked away from the hotel and turned the corner twenty yards away. He approached the coffee shop that he had made a note of when he had arrived at the hotel yesterday, walked in and ordered a latte. The latte was in front of him in less than two minutes and after he had paid, he walked outside to the tables and chairs that were lined up on the street and sat down. What a glorious sunny day he thought to himself. He checked his watch, it moved to nine twenty-nine am and he dialled the receiver number, the screen of his phone converted to a road map, and he could see a red dot slowly approaching the opposite side of the road to Westminster Abbey, exactly where he needed it to be, and just as the flashing dot pulled to a stop directly opposite the grand old building, his watch struck nine thirty, and with the most spiteful of ironies, he entered the code to set off the bomb. Zero-nine-one-one.
He sat drinking his coffee calmly. He savoured the noise of the sirens and noted that literally everyone walking past had their ears to a cell phone and were talking in hurried tones and looking around frantically. People were coming out of the shops around him looking over towards the direction of Westminster Abbey, even though it was impossible to see anything due to the height of the surrounding buildings. He finished his coffee and headed on foot, slowly, towards Kings Cross Station which was just over half a mile away. When he got to within sight of the station, he headed into a barber’s shop and asked the young girl working there for a number one crew cut all over and to be quick as he had a train to catch. He left the barbers ten minutes later and walked into the station. He had purchased his ticket to Liverpool yesterday morning and showed it to the ticket inspector who was manning the platform gate. By 10:22 he was sitting on the train as it pulled out of Kings Cross for the two and a half hour journey to Liverpool. So simple he said to himself again. So, so simple.
Ward and Lawson arrived at Westminster Abbey around the time that Asif Fulken’s train was pulling out of London. The area was already sealed off and there were armed police, the Army and fire-fighters everywhere. Lawson pulled up to a row of bollards which were set out across the road directly opposite the Abbey, and they climbed out of the car. He walked up to the bollards and showed his warrant card to the officers securing the scene and he and Ward were promptly waved through. Lawson walked up to a guy that he obviously recognised; an MI5 operative Ward assumed, and asked him for an update.
“Thankfully it looks like only thirty people were killed,” the guy said to Lawson, “And most of them were Japanese tourists,” he added almost in relief.
“Who is securing the area?” Lawson asked.
“Bomb disposal.”
“There is nothing else here,” Ward said.
“We will determine that” the guy said aggressively. But Ward wasn’t listening or looking at the damage, he was looking around behind him.
“What are you looking for?” Lawson asked him
“Confirmation.”
He looked at the colleague of Lawson’s who had clearly taken an instant dislike to him. “The bomb,” Ward said, “It went off out here not in the Abbey?”
“Yes. A cab pulled up and boom!! It must have been a suicide bomber. The people who took the blast were tourists who had just stepped off of a bus on an organised tour,” the guy replied.
“Number of injured?” Lawson enquired.
“Another thirty. The ones who died shielded the blast in effect because they were standing in a big group waiting for their tour guide,” the guy replied.
Lawson nodded. He looked at Ward who had his back to him again, lookin
g in the opposite direction,
“Are you still looking for confirmation?” he asked Ward.
“No. I have it. You need to make a phone call. Tell Charlie that we will meet him at 2:00pm in The White Horse,” Ward said, “Then take me back to UKBC in Haringey and get one of your team to make sure that any footage that they took here this morning is available and waiting for us to watch. I have to make a phone call.”
He moved about twenty feet away from Lawson, took out his cell phone and noted six missed calls, all from Centrepoint, but he could wait. He dialled Eloisa’s number and it went straight to her voice mailbox. He simply said, “Eloisa, I’m coming home,” and hung up.
EIGHT
Lawson tore through the traffic, jumping red lights and driving along Bus Lanes. Any traffic violations would be wiped out later. Right now there was a bomber on the loose. Nothing else mattered. They arrived at UKBC News and without question; Gilbert raised the barrier and waved them through. Ward assumed he had been reprimanded about his over-vigilance by his boss. They didn’t bother reporting in at the reception desk and they walked straight up the stairs to the open plan newsroom. The scene inside was chaotic. It looked similar to the situation room in the White House. Ward had been privy to being in there once as a consultant for the extraction of a team of Navy Seals, after a rescue mission had gone wrong in Russia. There were people running everywhere, talking on phones, little team briefs taking place with groups of eight or fewer all huddled around one main speaker. Everyone ignored them and stayed focused on the events that were unfolding in front of them. On the large screens, a newsreader was talking about the explosion and flicking between live pictures of events outside of Westminster Abbey and footage of the Metro blast in Paris, while a ‘Breaking News’ scroll ran across the bottom of the screen declaring there had been an explosion at Westminster Abbey.
“Find Walker,” Ward said to Lawson and watched as he walked over to the first attractive woman he saw, noting that he walked past at least three more senior looking males on the way through to her. He watched her smiling, running her fingers through her hair and then playfully smacking Lawson on the arm. ‘Jesus’, he thought to himself, does he ever let up? Lawson came back a few minutes later and said, “Walker is in a senior meeting room on the third floor. Apparently the big boss is here and he wants a handle on this thing.”