by Rob Wyllie
She was holding a copy of the first edition. 'So, this was your work then was it Rod? The best we could come up with was Bomber Disappears after New Evidence Emerges?'
'You weren't around for the website deadline. I got Yash Patel to knock it up. He's a bright lad, great future.'
Her expression suggested she didn't agree with his assessment. 'I suppose it qualifies as accurate reporting, if nothing else.'
He ignored her sarcasm. 'That's why I asked you to come in. There's a lot of angles on this story and I wanted to ask your advice on how to play it. Any thoughts?'
Of course she had thoughts, she had scarcely thought of anything else since Henderson had declared the mistrial. She would have to be careful of course, after attending that dinner with Gerrard and Philip and Dr Kahn, but that shouldn't be too difficult.
'As you say Rod, lots of angles. But you know my mantra, it's got to be about the players. Readers are only interested in the human side.'
'Got that, yep. Brilliant.' As if he didn't know, having clocked up thirty years in the industry.
'So there's a lot of people with shit on their shoes after what's happened. Adam Cameron, that smoothie QC, he's been made to look like a complete tit for a start.'
Clark pursed his lips. 'Well, I suppose so, but he's one of ours, don't forget.' What he meant was Eton and Oxford, solid establishment. 'Might not get the universal approval of our loyal readership if we make him look stupid.'
She rolled her eyes. 'Not that it would be difficult, but I agree.'
'There's Margo Henderson too,' Clark said. 'The judge. It was her that actually let Alzahrani walk after all, even though the police wanted her held in remand. We could run a nice line about the out-of-touch judiciary.'
'No. Apart from the minor problem that the police didn't have any evidence to support their demand, we've run the judge-as-enemy-of-the-people story more times than I've forgotten.'
He knew she wasn't going to accept any of his suggestions, and he didn't mind. Unlike her, he didn't run on ego. This was just a ritual mating dance, the display of brightly-coloured feathers before they got it on. It was only a matter of how much foreplay she would tolerate before they settled on the idea she had had from the start.
It seemed as if the foreplay might be running on a bit longer. 'So, my first thought was to do something on the CPS and the disclosure cock-up, but make it personal. Really personal. Elizabeth Rooke - Lady Rooke - she's the boss, as I'm sure you know...'
White's tone suggested that she knew he didn't. She was right.
'...and the general consensus is that she has been way over-promoted. I talked to a few people and found out that she's been married three times and, listen to this, she's recently invested in some top-of-the-range cosmetic surgery. Tits, face, arse, the whole package.'
His eyes narrowed. 'That sounds interesting Penelope. Though I'm sensing a but.'
'Yeah Rod. It's a good story alright, but I think it's got limited shelf-life.'
'So maybe I'll give it to Yash to run as a side story. Page seven or eight, something like that, he'll make a good fist of it. And I can tie it into my editorial.' He knew how to wind her up, and he liked doing it. Very much.
For once, she didn't take the bait. 'Whatever, you're the boss. So I also thought about the government's role in all of this. What I mean is the Home Office and the Justice Department have sat on their backsides for years whilst the CPS and the police treated the rules of disclosure as a minor inconvenience.' She knew that would tick Clark's boxes and ring all his bells at the same time. Because he couldn't afford to miss a chance to put the boot into the administration. Not because he was a supporter of HM's opposition himself, although she assumed he was, but because those were his instructions from the paper's owner.
But for the story to be any good, it had to be personal, and that meant attacking the Home Secretary. The Right Hon. Gerrard Saddleworth MP. Dear Gerrard. Her current lover. No, that wasn't going to happen.
Clark was sensing another but. 'Perhaps we can slip that one into the online edition for the subscribers if you don't want to front-page it.'
She shrugged. 'Yeah, give it to Yash. Anyway...'
He relaxed his shoulders and gently rapped on the table. It was time. 'So Penelope, let's have it.'
'Maggie Brooks and Dena Alzahrani. That's the angle.'
She picked up her phone and showed him the photograph she had got from Philip. One that showed Maggie at her very best, but with perhaps just a hint of smugness and entitlement in her expression. At least, that's how White intended to describe it.
Clark raised an eyebrow. 'She's quite an attractive woman. I didn't know that.'
'Exactly,' White replied. 'Attractive but useless. So, it's quite simple. We cast her in the part of the villain. Smart-arsed lawyer, completely out of touch with the public mood, pulls a stunt and a vile killer walks free.'
'Some might say she was only doing her job,' Clark said. 'Everybody is entitled to a fair trial.'
'Sod that Rod, this has got nothing to do with justice, you know that. This is about selling papers and that's what you want, isn't it?' She knew he would have no answer to that, and she didn't wait for one.
'So right on the top corner of the front page, we put a huge big counter. That shows the number of days that Alzahrani has been walking free on our streets, and we print it every day until she is caught. Centre stage we put a big picture of Maggie Brooks and day after day we pile on the pressure. Drip, drip, drip, drip. We write about the previous cases that she lost. We talk to grieving parents of the victims who tell us they are disgusted with what she had done. We question her marriage, suggest that all is not well in that department. We even go back to her school and find out that she was a horrible little creep that nobody liked. In summary, we pile on the shit. Standard stuff really.'
Clark nodded. He'd known from the start that he would have to agree with whatever she came up with, but he always tried to retain some semblance of dignity. 'Ok Penelope, but just make sure you check anything contentious with legal first, alright?'
'Of course I will Rod,' she lied. 'By the way, I've got tomorrow's headline.'
She picked up her pen and scribbled a few words on her notepad, and then spun it round so Clark could read it.
Maggie Brooks - the Most Hated Woman in Britain?
It looked good alongside Brooks' photograph. And this was only the first day of Alzahrani being on the loose. Give it a couple of weeks when they still hadn't tracked her down and there would be no need for the question mark. Penelope White would see to that.
Chapter 7
Jimmy Stewart lounged back in the battered armchair, idly flicking through the day-old newspaper. The Chronicle's garish banner headline declared it their 'One Hundred Day edition'. One hundred days since the Palestinian Dena Alzahrani, to the deep embarrassment of the security services, had disappeared into thin air. After having been whisked away from her trial in a black limo. The infamous black limo. That had really pissed off the papers, qualities and tabloids alike. Especially when just four days later, the anti-terrorist boys had come up with some new evidence. On a whim, some junior forensic geek had decided to have another look at what was left of the van. And had found some DNA. Dena Alzahrani's DNA, only it was nine months too late. Embarrassing for the Met, since the teenage terrorist had disappeared into thin air, causing an almighty stink. Since then there had been nothing. No leads, no sightings, nothing. He saw too that the paper was still sticking it into the hapless barrister who had engineered her release. Maggie Brooks, the most hated woman in Britain. The label had stuck, and there she was again on the front page. Very pretty, but goodness, what must it be like to live with all that crap being thrown at you.
Tucked away in the inside pages, they were breaking the news of the discovery of a huge stash of bomb-making materials in an anonymous warehouse in Pinner. Nearly one hundred thousand disposable ice-packs, containing enough ammonium nitrate to blow up Wembley Stadium. A fo
rty-six-year-old Iranian with suspected links to Hizbollah had been arrested. Why he had been allowed to roam the streets of London unchecked in the first place was the subject of much outrage in the article, a viewpoint with which Jimmy agreed.
He was in the mess room of RAF Northolt, his EOD team having been permanently transferred to London a fortnight ago after the discovery of the Pinner bomb factory. Nearly three months to the day after the Belfast attack. He dreamt about it every night, a recurring nightmare on top of all the other recurring nightmares, this the worst of all. The pretty face of Sergeant Naomi Harris smiling at him, earnest and eager, eyes sparkling with love for life. 'So what are you going to do when you leave the army?' she asks, over and over again. And then the crack of the bullet from the gunman's rifle, smashing her head into little pieces.
'Penny for them sir.'
Private Alex Marley, straight out of training, fresh-faced, brimming with enthusiasm. Jimmy groaned inwardly. Bloody hell, not another one. Why did they keep sending him these bloody novices, he wasn't a bloody babysitter. And after what had happened in Belfast, for Christ's sake. For once it would be nice to get some grizzled old hand, someone who had been round the block a bit, with a bit of street smarts. Problem was, not many of the EOD&S guys made it to veteran status. The 'killed on duty' stats weren't good, and if you survived that then the PTSD got you. Only mugs like himself tried to carry on, and where had that got him?
'Just daydreaming Marley. My Euro millions numbers have come up and Scotland have won the World Cup.'
'Woman or men sir?'
'Sorry?'
'The woman's football team or the men's. Your woman's team is actually pretty good sir.'
'And the men's is pretty rubbish,' Jimmy laughed. 'Yes, I know, that's why it's only a dream. You're interested in footie then?'
'I am sir. I play a bit too. I'm hoping to make the joint services team this year.'
'Well good luck with that, hope you make it. No Scottish blood in your background?'
'Not as far as I'm aware sir. Jamaica and Catford I'm afraid. Although I'm told I did visit Carlisle once with my grandmother, when I was three.'
'Marley, I think you'll find that's in England actually, but it's probably close enough for you to qualify.'
Out of the blue, his personal radio cracked into life. 'Captain Stewart, I think we have a live incident'. A glance at the wall-mounted television, permanently tuned to Sky News, confirmed his worst fears. Their breaking news was of a suspected terror attack at a Hampstead primary school. Grainy pictures of the scene, evidently captured on the phone of an eye-witness, showed a large white van jammed against the gates of the school. The flashing blue and green lights of the police cars and paramedics were eerily reflected by the film of autumn rain that had fallen earlier that day.
'Shit,' Jimmy said, 'c'mon Marley, we need to get down there quick.' He had been briefed on the earlier Notting Hill attack, and this already had all the hallmarks of a copy-cat operation. That time there had been a bomb, and it was surely odds-on that there would be one again today. The technicians had already got the Foxhound's engine running when they reached the garage, the postcode remotely programmed into the vehicles military-grade sat-nav system.
'Control, what's the status?' he barked. Marley swung the heavy vehicle in behind the police escort waiting on West End Road. It set off at pace, its sirens wailing, clearing a path through the busy traffic.
'Reports of an on-board IED. Incident Commander has ordered police, fire and ambulance personnel to clear the area. There are multiple impact casualties at the scene, and a woman trapped under the front wheels of the van.'
All these kids and mothers, seriously injured and no way for the paramedics to help them until his bomb squad gave the all-clear. He shuddered at the thought, the agony they were suffering, lying alone and terrified. Here they were in London and the nightmare was starting all over again.
It took nearly eighteen minutes for them to arrive at the school. He knew that would be too late for some victims who would already have died as a result of their injuries, victims who might have been saved if the paramedics could have got to them sooner. Commander John Rufford was waiting for them as they approached the crime scene barriers. Jimmy jumped down from the cab and shook his hand warmly.
'Captain Jimmy Stewart, EOD&S. I can see where the van has ended up. We'll get started right away but please make sure you keep everyone at least a hundred metres back.'
'Roger and good luck Captain,' replied the Commander. 'We won't get in your way, but at the risk of stating the bleeding obvious, the quicker the better'.
'I know sir, we'll do everything we can.'
Jimmy had now been joined by Private Marley, looking pale and frightened. It was her first live incident and it was slowly dawning on her that this job was going to have to be done without the help of the Dragon or any of the other high-tech machinery in their extensive armoury.
'What are we going to do sir?'
He heard the fear in his colleague's voice, and he liked that. Bravery and over-confidence got you killed in this job, and with just two weeks’ service left, he was not about to have the loss of another young life spinning round his brain in the small hours.
'You Marley, are going to stay right here by the Foxhound and keep in touch with Control. Do not move from the vehicle unless I specifically tell you to, understand? I want you to watch all the video that I send back from the helmet camera and let me know if you spot anything, anything at all. I need you as my second pair of eyes. Got that?'
'Yes sir, but...'
'No ifs or buts, that's procedure and we're playing this one by the rule book'.
Except it wasn't quite going to be played by the rule book. The rule book would dictate working down a long check list before putting any EOD lives in danger. The rule book would mean first sending in the Dragon to do a thorough video survey, and then waiting until Control had reviewed the footage and made its recommendations. The rule book would mean more people would die. Jimmy was going to rip up the rule book.
He slung the heavy toolkit onto his back and sprinted down the road to where the van lay, its windscreen smashed and bonnet crumpled where it had crashed into the heavy stone gatepost. As he approached, he began to hear the moans and cries of the injured. A little girl, her neat uniform ripped and splattered with blood, lay on her side, crying for her mummy. Beside her, a boy of about the same age. Already it looked too late for him. The young woman trapped under the wheels of the van looked in a bad way, but was still clinging to consciousness. She saw Jimmy approach and let out a faint 'help me,' but he couldn't help her, not at this moment. This was like Afghanistan all over again, except the wounded weren't professional soldiers who were paid to put their lives in danger day in day out. These were innocent civilians, woman and children caught up in a conflict they knew little about and about which they cared even less.
You had to steel yourself, tell yourself that the only way to help these people was to do your job and disarm this bomb, but it was damn hard and today Jimmy knew that he'd come to the end of the road. Just this one more operation, that was all he had in him. He just had to get out while he still could.
Come on man, think. The chances were that the bomb's trigger mechanism would be in the van itself, rather than being detonated remotely. Probably a motion or vibration sensor or just a simple electronic timer. If this was another Palestinian attack by the same group responsible for the Notting Hill incident, then it was logical to think they would use the same tried and tested method as before. Besides that, it was not easy to prime a motion sensor without blowing yourself up in the process, and this lot did not seem intent on joining the ranks of the suicide bombers. And then he noticed that the driver's door was closed. Yes. That meant that the attacker must have shut it behind him when he fled the scene, most probably an unthinking automatic reaction. So that almost certainly ruled out motion or vibration sensors. Good- then it had to be a timer. Only problem being that
it might be programmed to go off in the next two seconds. Not so good.
He clicked on his two-way communicator and pulled down the helmet-mounted microphone.
'Ok Marley, I'm going in now, ok, just keep your eyes fixed on that video.'
'Ok sir, I'm on it.'
The timer was easy to detect, being stuck to the front of the dashboard in full view and attached by double-sided tape. It was nothing more sophisticated than a simple electronic stopwatch, costing no more than two quid on Amazon - cheap and deadly. He looked at the rapidly-changing display, calibrated to the millisecond. Only six minutes before it went off. Oh-oh. Examining it, he saw that eight or nine coloured wires sprouted from below the device, leading to an open storage cubby-hole on the passenger side. There it was, slotted into a large manila envelope - half a kilo of prime IRA Semtex, packing enough stored explosive energy to blow a twenty-metre-wide crater in the roadway below. He examined the package closely, counting the number of wires going in - eight of them, and just one that, when snipped, would disarm the detonator. It was like Russian roulette, but with the odds stacked eight to one against you.
'Shit, shit, shit.'
'Sorry sir?'
'I think we're buggered here Marley. There's just so much decoy wiring, there's no way I can risk mucking about with it.'
'I can see that sir. Could you not try and dismantle the timer, see if you can figure out how it's wired?'
'I thought of that, but I'd bet my arse that it will have some sort of anti-tamper mechanism. Remove the cover and boom, up it will all go. That's not going to work I'm afraid.'
The sweat was now pouring down his brow as he began to comprehend the sheer hopeless of his situation. C'mon, think man, think. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do. And procedure, the book, dictated that he now withdrew to safety. Right away. No room for sentiment or mindless valour in the army. Nothing could be done for the wounded, so get out whilst you can, saving a valuable human asset to fight again. Leaving the gravely injured to their fate, waiting until the timer ran down and the bomb wreaked its terrible carnage. That's what he had to do.