by Max Kinnings
“So your parents abandoned you, did they?”
“Not this again.”
“Go on, tell me.”
“If you really want to know, my father knifed my mother over the breakfast table and then he hung himself.”
“So what did you do?”
“I carried on eating breakfast.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you like. It means nothing to me what you believe. You can come out with as much heresy and blasphemy as you want. Nothing will change the course of your destiny now.”
George didn’t know where he was going with this but he knew that he needed to keep him talking. Denning’s mood had changed. Faced with imminent death, perhaps his resolve was weakening.
“If you could turn back the clock, would you try and stop your dad from doing what he did?”
“Whatever for?”
“He killed your mother. Didn’t you love your mother?”
“She was all right, I suppose.”
“How can you say that about your own mother? Jesus loved his mother. Jesus preached that everyone should love their mother.” George was winging it. He had no idea whether Jesus preached any such thing—he had failed his religious studies exam—but his comment made Denning think for a moment.
“Maybe I would.”
“Maybe you would what?”
“Have stopped him doing what he did but it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters.”
“It matters now more than ever, seeing as in a short while you’re going to be meeting up with your mother and father again.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“I just don’t.”
“But you’re going to heaven, aren’t you?”
“They won’t be there.”
“Your mum and dad will be in hell, will they?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you thought that if you kill hundreds of innocent people, you’ll probably meet them there?”
“I’m just doing what I was destined to do.”
“Have you ever stopped to think for just one moment,” said George, trying with all his might to sound measured and thoughtful when his natural instinct was to hurl obscenities, “that perhaps this is not what God wants, that perhaps you’ve misread the signs? Every nut job that carries out an atrocity like this thinks they’ve got God on their side.”
“Why are you talking to me about God when you don’t even believe?”
“Because I’m trying to show you that what you’re doing is wrong. By every law of humanity or religion or whatever you want to believe in, this is wrong. This is cold-blooded mass murder.”
“No, George, this was prophesied two thousand years ago.” Suddenly alert, Denning stopped talking and listened. Someone was trying to make their way down the side of the train, trying to make their way between the side of the carriage and the tunnel wall. He raised his assault rifle, fired off a burst of rounds and the sound of movement outside the carriage stopped.
“Can’t you see?” said George. “Can’t you comprehend for even one moment that what you’re doing is wrong? If there is a God, you’re going to be judged and damned. Don’t you see that?”
Denning turned and pointed the rifle at George.
“Stop.”
“Am I getting to you?”
“I want you to be baptized, I want your sins to be absolved but if you have to die a sinner then so be it.”
George held his stare and said nothing. Denning broke eye contact when he heard more movement but this time it wasn’t coming from the side of the carriage as before but from above. Someone had climbed out of the doors between the carriages and managed to make it up onto the roof and was now crawling along it, trying to be as quiet as possible. Unfortunately, the sound of his or her clothes dragging along the metal was impossible to hide. Whoever it was—and George would never know—they were struggling to stay alive. When Denning looked up and George could see him calculating in his mind the exact angle and trajectory of the shots that he would fire into the ceiling of the train, he couldn’t help the tears that came to his eyes. After a short burst of gunfire, the sound of crawling stopped.
“These people just don’t want to learn. They are so close to salvation and yet they keep trying to throw it all away.”
He turned to George and, holding the rifle in one hand, he pressed his other hand against his ruptured face and said, “I like you, George, please let me save you. Don’t let me have to kill you, not after all that we’ve been through together. You’ll thank me when you see what lies in store for you and your family. You’ll be reunited on the other side. You are all prophets. I am leading you into the promised land. You’ll see.”
At the moment that he spoke, George didn’t care whether Denning shot him or not. “Fuck you,” he said, “and fuck your God too.”
2:42 PM
Leicester Square
“Nick, do you think you can get Conor and I down into the ticket hall?”
“I don’t know, Ed.”
“Come on, we’re cops. They’re going to let us down there.”
“It’s what we’re going down there with that worries me.”
“You think there’ll be dogs?”
“Yeah, bound to be. They’re going to start howling when they get a load of what’s in that cardboard box.”
“Well, we just need to make sure that we keep away from them.”
The four men made their way toward the Underground entrance on the west side of Charing Cross Road. Ed didn’t dare think what they must look like to the massed ranks of police and special forces milling around the empty streets around the tube station—the blind man with the tall shaven-headed man holding his arm, the crusty academic, and the stocky Irishman carrying the cardboard box. They would look strange and incongruous under normal circumstances—what the hell would they look like now?
“There are two CO19 officers at the Charing Cross Road entrance to the tube,” whispered Calvert.
“Dogs?”
“None that I can see. But what are we going to tell them we’re doing?”
“Leave it to me. All you need to do is point me at them.”
Calvert led on, while Ed held his arm and thought about what he was going to say.
“Hi,” he heard Calvert say to the CO19 guys. “This is DI Ed Mallory from Special Branch.”
Ed took his ID card from his pocket, showed it to them, and said, “We’re going to need to get access to the tube station. This is Professor Frank Moorcroft and Dr. Conor Joyce from Imperial College London.” Ed pocketed his ID. If they were going to challenge him, ask to see ID for Joyce and Moorcroft, then they would do it now and his plan would be foiled.
“Okay, gov,” said one of the armed officers and as soon as Ed heard it, he knew they were in.
“We’re going to need a member of London Underground staff with a passkey to allow us access to where we need to go.”
“The station manager’s down there in the ticket hall.”
“Thanks.”
Calvert steered him through the doorway and down the steps toward the ticket hall. Ed heard Joyce’s and Moorcroft’s footsteps as they followed them down.
Calvert called ahead to someone—the station manager—and while Professor Moorcroft explained where they needed to go, Ed listened to the stillness of the tube station. There were a couple of subdued voices far off to his left, uniformed police most probably, and he was certain that he heard the whine of a dog.
“Conor?”
“Yeah.”
“Who’s down here with us?”
“There are some paramilitary-looking fellas over there.”
“Have they got a dog with them?”
“Jesus, yes, they have. Spaniel.”
“We need to move. Nick, come on.”
“Hold on a sec,” said Calvert.
Ed tuned in to the conversation between the professor and the station manager. They were taking
too much time.
“Frank? Frank, listen. Do you have the key and do you know where you’re going?”
“Well, er—”
“Yes or no.”
“Well, yes to the key and, I’m afraid, no to—”
“Let’s go. Now. Down the escalators. Bring this guy with us.”
The dog barked again. Its behavior could attract attention at any moment if it hadn’t done so already. Ed took hold of Calvert’s arm and almost pushed him forward, trying to set the pace. They made their way down the stalled escalator. Ed listened for footsteps behind them or the clicking of dog’s claws on floor tiles. He heard neither but a distant bark set his nerves jangling.
“I think it’s down toward the Northern Line,” said the station manager.
“Show us where you think it is,” said Ed.
“I know I’ve been there. We used to use it for storage.”
“It’s extremely important that we find it now.”
All the supposed might of the British government, all the security forces, all the committees, all the counterterrorism strategies and the fate of the passengers on the train was in the hands of this unlikely group of men.
Ed struggled to contain his frustration as they all came to a standstill once again and the station manager said, “No, I just can’t seem to . . . No.” Ed was about to give free rein to his boiling impatience when the man said, “Oh, hold on. Here we go.” They were moving again. Twenty feet further along a pedestrian tunnel and then they stopped. Keys jangled. A lock was turned. A door opened—heavy, metal, hinges creaking.
“Okay, Conor. It’s just you and me now,” said Ed.
“Great.” Ed couldn’t miss the Irishman’s sarcasm.
“Nick, you need to go back and scope out the ticket hall, make sure that if anyone comes looking for us you delay them as long as you can. Frank, you just need to tell us how far we have to go into the tunnel.”
“I’d be happy to come with you.” For once, Frank had got straight to the point.
“No, Frank, I can’t ask you to do that. Just tell us where you think we need to be.”
“By my calculations, the best place is about two hundred and thirty-two yards from the mouth of the tunnel. Here, use this.”
“What is it?” asked Ed.
“It’s a laser measuring device—all the estate agents use them. You press the button on top and it tells you the distance between the device and whatever surface you place the laser dot on.”
“Give it to Conor, it’s no use to me.”
“And I’ll need a flashlight too,” said Conor.
“Here, have this,” said the station manager.
“Okay, let’s go,” said Ed, taking hold of Conor’s arm as he made his way into the doorway and down the steps. Before the professor was out of earshot, Ed could no longer put off asking the question he had been so afraid to ask for the past few minutes.
“How long do you think we’ve got, Frank?”
“Impossible to say, I’m afraid. I’d just be as fast as you can.”
As they reached the bottom of the steps, the air became cooler. Ed listened to Conor’s labored breathing. He listened as he put the cardboard box down on the ground.
“You’re not going to like this,” said Conor.
“What’s the matter?”
“We’re never going to make it.”
2:47 PM
Northern Line Train 037
Those children tall enough to keep their heads above the surface of the water stood on the seats; those too short to do so were held by adults and clung to the handrails in the ceiling of the carriages. Adam did the same, his arms aching as he struggled to remain conscious despite his increasing blood loss. The guide dog paddled around in a tight circle. Her owner, a man who knew all about perpetual darkness, kept pulling on the lead that was looped through a handrail as the water level rose, maintaining the tension to alleviate the strain on the dog’s tiring legs.
In the second carriage of the train, Maggie Wakeham stood on the seats, clinging to the handrail, straining her head up into the apex of the ceiling, sucking at the air in the thin gully that remained, the only space that the water had not yet filled. All but the most water-resistant of the electronic devices that had provided some tiny points of light from the people further down the carriage were now extinguished; they had either run out of power or been doused in water. But if she could see nothing, she could still hear plenty and there were sounds that she would rather not have heard. The prayers, shouts, wails, cries, and pleas had gone and all that remained were the sounds of people desperately trying to stay alive, thrashing around in the water, fighting to find those last few inches of warm, oxygen-depleted air.
2:55 PM
Leicester Square Tube Station, service tunnel
“What is it, what’s the matter?” Ed couldn’t disguise the fear in his voice. Just when he felt as though they had a real shot at trying to save the passengers on the train, Conor’s words had him rattled.
“The tunnel’s blocked.”
“What with?”
“Shelving units, filing cabinets, office shit.”
“Well, we need to get them out of the way.”
“You should see it.”
“Wish I could.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Come on, give me the box, you start shifting it.”
Ed held his hands out and Conor dumped the box into them. It was heavier than he had anticipated. Conor was muttering and swearing as he pulled at metal objects that scraped and screeched across the stone floor.
“How deep into the tunnel do you think they go?” asked Ed.
“There’s no way of guessing.”
“Conor, I can’t tell you—”
“Don’t you fucking dare. Jesus!” It sounded as though a metal shelving unit had slipped and fallen onto Conor. He swore and cursed but he continued pulling at the metal obstructions. Whatever they were, they had clearly been down there for some time because when moved, they threw up clouds of dust that caught in the back of Ed’s throat and made him cough.
“Okay, stay with me.”
Ed pushed the cardboard box against Conor’s back as he forged a path. Conor threw himself forward, pushing his way between the metal obstructions. Ed’s arms ached under the weight of the box. The air was warm and gritty. Ed’s shirt began to stick to him as he fought his way through; his shins and ankles cracked against metal, making him wince and curse. A piece of shelving slid back from where Conor had pushed it away and caught him on the side of the forehead. The pain made him cry out and he could feel a lump form and start to throb. But at least it distracted him from the time they were wasting, time that might mean the difference between life and death for hundreds of people.
“Okay, we’re going to have to climb over this,” said Conor.
“What is it?”
“Just a load of—oh fuck it, you don’t need to know. Give it to me.”
Conor took the cardboard box from him and lifted it upward. Ed reached out to feel the obstruction. It felt like a wall of individual metal shelves stacked one on top of the other. He felt for the top one which was at chest level. Ed pulled himself up and started to crawl along the top of the shelving after Conor, who was doing the same, pushing the box of explosives in front of him, the cardboard scraping against the metal.
“Okay, we’re getting down here, it looks like it’s clear from here on in.”
Ed heard Conor jump down to the floor ahead of him as he moved as fast as he could, his shirt snagging and tearing against the sharp corners of the metal objects over which he dragged himself.
“How far do you think we’ve come?” asked Ed as he jumped down onto the tunnel floor.
“I have no idea.”
“Do you think you can use the measuring device that Frank gave us?”
“No, I don’t.”
“He said it was two hundred and thirty-two yards from the start of the tunnel. Let’s say we’ve done
the thirty-two, we need to go the other two hundred yards.”
“If you say so.”
“Come on, give me the box and you hold the torch. Watch out for me, if I’m heading for a wall.”
Conor said nothing, just emitted a derisory snort as though the thought of Ed running full tilt into a tunnel wall rather appealed to him.
They ran. It was hard going with the box of explosives in his straining arms. But his thoughts weren’t focused on his discomfort as he tried to guess the distance they had traveled and how much further they needed to go. At this rate, even if they did succeed to rupture the tunnel wall, they might very well be draining the water away from a train full of corpses.
When running on his treadmill at home, Ed always finished off his jogging with a short sprint. He reckoned it was roughly about two hundred meters. He imagined himself at home now, pushing himself to the limit as he forced himself onward. Occasionally, he could feel the tunnel wall snag against his shirt sleeve and he recalibrated his trajectory. Conor’s heavy breathing and footsteps provided him with a sound source that he could focus on and plot his course by.
“How far do you think we’ve gone?” asked Ed.
“It’s got to be about two hundred yards now. My vote is we go for it here.”
They stopped running and Ed put the cardboard box on the ground.
Conor’s knees emitted a faint cracking noise as he knelt down to the box and started opening up its cardboard flaps.
“I’m going to use all of this.” It wasn’t a question. Conor had made a decision.
“If that’s what you think.”
“Yeah, I do.”
The insolence was still there in Conor’s voice but it was tempered by urgency. Objects were being unwrapped from polyethylene. Conor muttered and cursed as he went about his work.
“What are you doing?” asked Ed.
“I’m baking a fucking cake, what do you think?” Conor sighed then muttered, “I’m molding the Semtex against the wall, then I’ll use some electrodes to connect it to the detonator.”