by Max Kinnings
“All right, Pat?” shouted Andy above the sound of the engine.
Pat shouted back a “Yeah!” but Andy could see by torchlight that he was bleeding from a minor head wound. If nothing else, the gunfire proved that they wouldn’t be confronted by a train full of corpses. If one of the hijackers was still alive then the chances were that some of the passengers were too.
“Cut the engine!” he shouted and Todd killed the outboard motor but the IRC’s forward momentum propelled it toward the train. If whoever was firing at them had a night-vision scope, they would be easy targets.
The men hunkered down in the boat as more rounds were fired, two of which struck the inflatable hull, pitching them forward into the water. Smithy tried to keep his Heckler & Koch G36 level as the flashlight attachment on the end of it lit up a figure with a handgun standing in the doorway set into the cab. Smithy positioned the red dot reflex sight on it and started shooting but the deflating IRC made it impossible to hold his line of fire and the bullets struck metal. Forced to swim as the IRC sank, Andy and his men were left facing an enemy that had seized the upper hand. They needed to regain the initiative—and fast.
3:25 PM
Northern Line Train 037, sixth carriage
Belle saw the red dot just in time and stepped back into the cab out of the way of the burst of automatic fire. This wasn’t the first time that she had been forced to deal with attackers and, while the men making their way toward her now were far more of a danger than the passengers on the train had been, she felt sure that she could repel them just as easily. Whatever it was that had happened, whatever it was that had caused the explosion that had made the water level drop, Tommy would think of something. Tommy always thought of something. All she had to do was to stand firm, maintain her position, and counter all attempts to enter the train. Tommy had told her that it wouldn’t be easy, that the journey would be long and perilous. As always, he was right.
She could hear them in the water coming closer. If only she had more holy bullets in the Pulverizer then she could have truly shown them the wrath of God. But there were—how many?—about seven or eight bullets left in the Glock. She had lost count but there was no way that God would forsake her now. Not after she had come this far. Tommy had told her that despite the journey being long and difficult, the outcome of their crusade would never be in doubt. The water from the holy river would never stop flowing. The tunnel would fill up with water once more and she would feel it close over her head just as it had done before.
Belle stepped back into the doorway and fired two shots into the water. Another burst of automatic gunfire was returned but once again she had already stepped back into the cab when it came. She felt invincible. She was doing God’s work.
They came closer and she allowed them. The darkness made it impossible to aim with any degree of certainty but, just as it made things difficult for her, it did the same for them. Let them come closer, let them believe that they were going to kill her. It would do them no good. People had underestimated her all her life. So let them do so now. Let them see the truth of God’s work; let them see how his wrath was channeled through his servant, Belle Denning.
They were close now; she could hear them. Despite the clamor of voices from the passengers on the train behind her, she could hear their every movement in the water. Stepping out into the doorway, she fired the Glock down into the darkness once more.
The first round that struck her shattered her thigh bone, the second bullet hit her just above the vagina, smashing her pubic bone; and the third entered through her navel, passed through her abdomen and severed her spinal cord. Belle slumped back into the cab, floundering in the water before she came to rest against Simeon.
It hurt. It hurt so much but it had happened, clearly it was meant to be. She had been baptized, born again. She would never die. Pointing the Glock into the doorway, she kept her finger on the trigger until it stopped bucking in her hand and she let it drop into the water. She reached for the Pulverizer and by the torchlight in the tunnel making its way toward her, she could just make out the silhouette of Simeon’s face in the darkness. She leaned forward, kissed his cold dead lips then spun the Pulverizer around in her hands and put the end of the barrel in her mouth. It was there in the chamber, the last holy bullet. The cross had been carved into the lead by her own hand, steadied by the hand of God. That same hand of God was steadying hers now. This was how it was meant to be.
The pain from the bullet wounds was receding and being replaced by a warm feeling, a feeling of love and peace. This was God’s glory; he was reaching out to her to pluck her from this dark place and take her in his arms.
The light was getting closer now. She could hear voices. One of the men in the tunnel said, “I think we got her.” He was wrong. They would never get her. Never. She caressed the Pulverizer’s trigger with her forefinger and as the light came closer still, she pulled the trigger and launched the last holy bullet, that blessed little lump of heavy metal with the cross carved into it that would send her on her way to heaven.
As the four SAS soldiers made their way on board the train, they were confronted by the sight of two corpses. One a man, and the other a decapitated woman. As they hurried through in the semidarkness toward the voices further along the train, none of them noticed the blood, brain and bone fragments that dripped down on them from the interior of the cab.
3:25 PM
Northern Line Train 037, first carriage
The engine was getting closer and with it, an increasingly powerful light which shone through the windows into the carriage. George could make out Denning’s silhouette standing in the water nearby. He readied himself to dive under the water at the first sign of the gun being pointed. But he need not have worried; Denning took his Browning automatic and pressed it against the bottom of his own chin. He started muttering something, some sort of valediction, and anger propelled George forward once again. He had to try and stop him. As the chain snapped tight around his ankle, he swung a fist at the pistol, managing to knock the barrel away from Denning’s face as he pulled the trigger. The shot clanged into the ceiling of the train. Denning tried to pull the pistol back into position but George had his hand around it now and they struggled with it, face to face.
“Let me die, George.”
Legs waded through water in the cab. Torches flashed in the carriage. Denning looked George in the eyes. The vicious pain in his face had sapped his strength and he looked broken, like a frightened child.
“You have to let me die. This is God’s will.”
A gloved hand reached out and grabbed hold of the pistol, pulling it from their collective grasp.
“Where are the explosives?” said the soldier who took the gun. “Tell us now!” Denning was pulled to his feet. There were four of them in total and all pointed their automatic weapons at him.
“Where are the explosives?”
Denning suddenly became calm. He caught his breath and staring back into the eyes of each of the soldiers in turn, he said, “They’re just about to blow.”
3:28 PM
Frith Street, Soho
“Clearly, Simeon Fisher has failed to prevent the attack,” said Berriman.
“Clearly,” said Hooper into his phone as he walked along the pavement, not even bothering to mask his sarcasm.
Any respect that he might have felt for his boss had evaporated in the past few hours. In reality, he knew he was running the operation alone. That’s the way that it had to be if it was going to succeed. And it still could. Choices, that’s what it was all about. He had to keep making them. So long as he did that and those choices were good ones, based on the best intelligence he could gather, then he knew he was still in with a fighting chance.
“Mark, it sounds to me as though we should resume this conversation at another time. You’re sounding rather agitated.”
“I’m fine. This whole operation can still work.”
“How can it work, Mark? You don’t seem to
understand. The cat’s out of the bag. Or it soon will be.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve just heard that the water level in the tunnel has dropped. It could be that Ed Mallory’s plan that you told me about has been put into operation. It doesn’t mean that we’re out of the woods. But hopefully it means that the passengers won’t drown.”
Hooper felt the heat of guilt burning behind his ears again. This spelled trouble. He had never thought for one moment that Ed Mallory’s idea of using some IRA dinosaur to blow a hole in the tunnel wall would actually work. But if he had succeeded, as Berriman suggested, then this changed everything. With potentially live witnesses and—even worse—live terrorists, the truth about the service’s and most notably his, foreknowledge, would almost certainly be discovered.
“Well, we’ll just have to make sure that some people don’t make it out alive.”
“You are joking.”
Berriman’s perpetually negative tone was infuriating but he knew that he had to keep a lid on his temper. If he lost control, he was more likely to make mistakes. He couldn’t afford to do that. There was too much at stake.
“All it means is that anyone who knows the truth does not survive the evacuation.”
“This is insane, Mark. The hijackers of the train know. The driver of the train probably knows. I know. You have to face it. This is impossible to contain.”
“You’re not going to tell anyone. The terrorists are going to die. And as for the driver—”
“Mark, you’re not making any sense. You need to stop. You need to stand down.”
“No, Howard, you’re the one who’s not thinking straight. I can still make this work. We do whatever it takes. This is a war.”
“What are you talking about? These aren’t Islamic fundamentalists. They’re Christians, Mark, Christians.”
“They’re all the same,” said Hooper as he walked across Charing Cross Road. “What’s it matter where they come from? What’s it matter which god they believe in? There is a growing tide of lunatics and extremists who are driven by a belief that they are doing the work of a supernatural figure. We have to fight them; we have to stop them.” Hooper flipped his ID at the police line and made his way toward the steps down into Leicester Square station. “You’ve got to trust me, Howard, it’s all going to be fine.” He could hear Berriman call his name a couple of times as he took the phone from his ear and hung up.
It was true what he’d said. This was a war. This was about right and wrong, however simplistic that might sound. So what if operational procedure wasn’t being followed? At a certain stage, pragmatism had to come into play. That was the nature of the job. So long as the good guys won, that was all that mattered.
Hooper knew that if he failed today, it would mean the end of his career. There would be shame, not only for him but for his family too. All those privileged jerks at school who had said he would amount to nothing would be proved right. They would have won. He couldn’t let that happen. That’s why before he had made his way down to the command center in Leicester Square, he had gone home and made sure that he had the right tools for the job.
3:29 PM
Northern Line Train 037, first carriage
“He’s lying,” said George. “There are no more explosives as far as I can see.” He spoke to the soldier nearest to him, who was doing all the talking and appeared to be the one in charge.
“When he caused the explosion that started the flood he had wires and a detonator but I haven’t seen anything to suggest that he’s rigged up anything else.”
George could feel Denning’s eyes burning into him but he had more important things to consider. “Someone needs to find my children,” he said as Maggie clambered through the window from the adjoining carriage and waded through the water toward them.
“Your children are safe,” said the commanding officer. “They’re at Leicester Square tube station, waiting to see you.”
“You’re sure?” asked Maggie, her voice trembling with emotion.
“Yes, I was told to tell you. They’re fine.”
Maggie fell against George and they threw their arms around each other. But their joy at being reunited was interrupted by Denning as he lunged forward and made a grab for one of the soldiers’ automatic weapons. It wasn’t a serious attempt to launch a counterattack; his actions were clearly nothing more than an attempt to incite one of the soldiers into shooting him.
“Do me a favor,” said George. “Keep him alive, will you?”
The soldier fixed George with a nervous stare. “You’re sure about the explosives?” he asked.
“As sure as I can be. The only wires I saw him use were for the first explosion.”
The soldier nodded at one of his colleagues and muttered something. Denning was roughly spun around and his hands secured behind his back with a plastic tie.
A crackle of short-wave radio and the commanding officer received word from the SAS team at the other end of the train that all the carriages were now secured and they were going to begin the evacuation.
As the chain that Denning had used to shackle George’s leg to the pole was severed with bolt croppers, Denning looked up at him and their eyes met.
“See you,” said Denning blankly.
George hesitated for a moment before he said, “I don’t think so.”
Never usually the most demonstrative of couples, George and Maggie clung to one another as they were led through the train toward the rear carriage. The water they waded through was a soup of discarded clothing, bags, books, newspapers, cell phones, music players, notebook computers—all the accoutrements of the urban commuter—now discarded, rendered obsolete and lifeless by the water that had swallowed them.
As the water level dropped yet further, people climbed down from the rear of the train and waded along the tunnel toward Leicester Square station. But the mood was somber; the bodies of those cut down by the terrorists’ bullets both on the train and in the tunnel were a brutal reminder of the carnage that had taken place.
George and Maggie with their special forces minder, a stocky bulldog of a man with a ginger crew cut, brought up the rear of the trail of refugees. When they arrived at the northbound Northern Line platform at Leicester Square, the soldier led them away from the others and up a flight of stone stairs to a low narrow corridor. George’s and Maggie’s shoes squelched as they walked along, their clothes dripping. They were shown into a room that had chairs and a table in the middle of it, at which a policewoman in uniform was seated playing a board game with Sophie and Ben.
The hallucinatory sheen through which George had watched the day’s events unfold was at its most intense as Maggie scooped up Sophie and he picked up Ben and they fell into a group hug.
“Daddy, you’re stinky,” said Ben, and George and Maggie laughed through their tears.
3:31 PM
Leicester Square Tube Station, service tunnel
The return journey back through the filing cabinets and metal shelving frames was marginally less difficult than before—Ed and Conor’s outward trip had cleared a path of sorts. The water slowed them down; it was up to the tops of their thighs but they weren’t in a hurry anymore. Ed’s ears were ringing from the explosion. The skin on his face, despite the fact that he had turned away from the blast, felt leathery and scorched, as though he had been lying in the sun for too long. Conor complained of a headache and concussion but his mood had been transformed. When Ed asked him whether he thought the blast might have secured the desired outcome of draining the Northern Line tunnel, there was no disguising his confidence. “I can feel it in my bones,” he said.
“I hope you’re right,” said Ed.
“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough. And at least we didn’t blow the whole of Leicester Square off the map. Funny, ’cause thirty years ago, that’s exactly what I would’ve wanted to do. That and to kill you. In fact, that’s what I intended to do when you came knocking earlier on.”
&nbs
p; “What stopped you?”
“I guess I wanted to try and save the people on the train more.”
Calvert met them at the top of the escalators. “We heard the blast. The special forces in the tunnel have reported that the water level has gone down. They’ve secured the train.”
“Survivors?” asked Ed.
“We don’t know numbers or details but yes, it looks like there are.”
“What about further explosives?”
“Seems there weren’t any.”
“Weren’t any?”
“Looks like Denning bluffed us.”
“Jesus.”
“Ed!” He could recognize the voice—it was Frank’s—but it was the product of an altogether different disposition than before. The professor’s footsteps approached. “Ed, well, what can I say? It looks like we got it right.” Ed held out his hand but Frank ignored it and gave him a hug. He hadn’t taken Frank as the hugging kind but he reciprocated and patted him on the back.
“Well done, Frank. We couldn’t have done this without you.”
“Sorry to break up your romantic moment,” said Conor, “but I think I’ll be getting on my way.”
“Ed?” Calvert had lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper aimed at Ed’s ear. Ed leaned toward him. “We’re going to need to have a pretty serious debrief about all of this. We may need Conor.”
Ed didn’t care who overheard what he said, Conor included: “Nick, I need one more favor from you and then we’re done. I need you to get Conor outside the cordon. And Frank. If it wasn’t for what these two have done—and you—we’d have a train full of dead bodies on our hands. Whatever fallout there is from this, I’ll deal with it.”
“Sure.” Conor’s wasn’t the only demeanor that had changed after the blast. The tension and reticence had gone from Nick Calvert’s voice. He clearly knew that explaining the nature of what they had conspired to do—and the legality of it—would take some doing, but the mission had succeeded. That should be enough to swing official opinion their way.