After a good night’s sleep and a quick breakfast, Kate and Rafi were at their desks in Wood Street by 7.45 a.m. on Monday.
Soon, though, Rafi found himself alone; Kate had disappeared to work with John and the rest of the team downstairs.
The office felt strange without the pent-up tension of the previous week. Rafi tidied his desk and then browsed the Internet to see how the main overseas markets were trading. He looked at Bloomberg’s news page first. There, at the top of the ‘Breaking News’, was a headline that made him smile: ‘International markets closed – in respect for all those who lost their lives in London’. Rafi clicked on the link to read the story. It explained how the chairmen of the major international banks operating in London had got together and asked their home stock and derivatives exchanges not to open for the day as a mark of respect, and the idea had snowballed. Rafi smiled; the Chancellor had arranged things in a very appropriate manner.
After forty minutes he’d run out of things to do so decided to see how things were progressing in the Ops Room. There Rafi was greeted as one of the team – basically no one took much notice of him! He looked at the screens and listened to the discussions going on.
Puddle Jumper had arrived at Safi in the early hours of the morning with its crew of six. They had cleared customs. Golden Sundancer and the sheikh’s plane were some five hours away.
The atmosphere ratcheted up a notch as Giles and David walked in, accompanied by Len Thunhurst, the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, John, Kate and the rest of their teams.
Rafi noticed that video links had been established with regional police command centres. Those around him spoke of Operation Dry Clean and explained that it would be the largest series of coordinated arrests ever undertaken.
Giles started the video link briefing. ‘The need for secrecy is absolute. Details of the arrests and the names will not be released until Len Thunhurst is satisfied that it’s safe to do so. The terrorists’ network of contacts should not be underestimated – let us not forget that two members of COBRA have been arrested. Operation Dry Clean will commence as soon as we receive confirmation that the ringleaders have been apprehended. There will be hell to pay if they are tipped off and give us the slip at the last moment. The capture of the terrorists is scheduled for 3.30 p.m. this afternoon, give or take a bit. Until then we must keep our actions under wraps. Len Thunhurst will be in charge of the UK arrests and I shall be overseeing the arrest of Maryam Vynckt in Luxembourg.’
Len took up the proceedings. He congratulated Giles and his team on their work and turned to Emma. ‘The floor is all yours.’
Emma looked worn out. She was a little hesitant at first, but soon got into her stride. She pointed to the electronic presentation on a second screen, which was linked to the conference rooms of those listening. Emma explained, using the diagrams on the screen, the relationship between Basel Talal’s venture capital business; Jameel’s Prima Terra; Maryam’s Gulf Trade Bank and the sheikh, who was the chief financier. She also mentioned the raft of public and private companies controlled and manipulated by the terrorist leaders. Jeremy nodded approvingly.
Emma paused to take questions and then put a new slide up on the screen. This contained a very lengthy list of names and addresses linked, where available, to mugshots of the people involved. She turned to Jeremy. ‘Thanks to the work of MI5, we have so far been able to trace 289 of the 323 people we are interested in. MI5 will be seeking your assistance to find the missing individuals.
‘For those on our list,’ she continued, ‘We’ve adopted a colour coding of red, blue and black. The names in red are individuals who have been complicit in the recent terrorist activities and for whom we have more than sufficient evidence for a prosecution. The blues have direct connections with the recent activities, but more evidence has to be gathered before we’ve got a watertight case. The names in black are circumstantially linked: while we believe that they’ve been very much involved in the terrorists’ plans, we need more information before we can confirm their involvement. The red names are our first priority. However, all the names are important as they’ll complete the picture of what the terrorists have been planning and will corroborate the case against those we’re going to prosecute.’
Emma pointed to the screen. ‘As soon as we have a person in custody, we’ll give their name on our list a yellow background. That way we can quickly see how things are progressing.’
‘Thank you, Emma,’ said Len turning to the video camera. ‘Many of the people you will be arresting are sleepers. Do not feel any sympathy for them – they are all implicated. Once in custody, we need to build a complete picture and identify any loose ends that we may have missed. Emma and her team, with the help of MI5, John and his team, have prepared a dossier on those you’ll be arresting. It will provide you with background details of what these individuals have been doing and how they’ve crossed the line. I do stress that each and every one of them should be treated with caution.’
Len paused to let his last statement sink in. ‘The resources of this terrorist operation have been likened by MI5 to those of a small to medium-sized country. They have on their payroll some of the most dangerous mercenaries we have ever had the misfortune to deal with. And be warned: some of the people on this list are very well connected. And please be aware that these sleepers or invisibles, who would usually go unnoticed, are extremely valuable to us. The fact that we don’t catch them with a smoking gun should not lessen the gravity of their involvement.’
The commissioner turned to Jack Fisher, one of John’s team, who blushed as he stood up. His voice started as a quiet squeak. John passed him a glass of water and gave him an encouraging smile. ‘Jack has spent the last couple of days, with the help of MI5, unravelling the terrorists’ network of outsourcing companies working for the public sector. What he and the rest of the team have unearthed makes for unpalatable reading.’
The commissioner nodded towards Jack, who had recovered his composure. ‘You’ll see there is an extensive list of companies, limited partnerships and businesses, which are controlled by the terrorists. Key individuals in these companies have been listed above. Their paper and electronic records will be needed so that we can identify the internal chains of command and see exactly what they have been doing.’
Len concluded matters with a stark warning. ‘We have good reason to believe that several of these people have a direct line of communication with the terrorist leaders. Until we have all the key leaders in custody we must, under no circumstances – I repeat, under no circumstances – let the cat out of the bag that Operation Dry Clean exists. Is that clearly understood?’
Fifteen minutes later, after a series of searching questions, the video links were turned off and connection was re-established with those tracking Golden Sundancer and the sheikh’s plane, and those planning the capture of Maryam in Luxembourg.
Colonels Turner and Gray and a reduced team came back into the room, which was rapidly reverting to a mini war room. On the central screen there was now a large electronic map showing Morocco and the north-west coast of Africa.
The clock on the wall gave the time as 11.06 a.m. The Prime Minister was scheduled to stand up in front of the House of Commons in less than three hours. Even though it was a bank holiday, these were exceptional times and the House was in emergency session.
Rafi turned his attention to the activities in Morocco. The chart showed a red dot which was making its way across the screen following a thin yellow line towards Marrakech. It was about 700 miles away. There was a second red dot 100 miles offshore tracking a thin yellow line along the coast towards the port of Safi. Then he spotted another red dot by Marrakech and a number of blue dots.
Kate tugged at his arm; she was also looking at the central screen. ‘I reckon those red dots are the sheikh’s plane, Golden Sundancer and Jameel. The blue ones must be the good guys – so the blue one in Safi must be our friends on board Puddle Jumper.’
Rafi pointed to the fine yellow line which stopped about fifteen miles off the coast. ‘That, I presume, is where the submarine is to rendezvous with Puddle Jumper.’
One of the colonel’s adjutants walked over to chat to Kate. ‘It’s all starting to come together nicely. The next few hours should be interesting! We have patched into the SBS command centre which is overseeing the operation at Safi. There’s a Nimrod offshore at 40,000 feet monitoring the location of Golden Sundancer. She has her cloaking device on so she’ll be invisible to the terrorists. She’ll pick up the video pictures and radio communications from the SBS men on board Puddle Jumper and the SAS teams on the ground. She’ll then relay them to the command centre where they’ll bounce them on to us.’
The adjutant thought for a moment. ‘Golden Sundancer, at her current speed, should reach Safi between 13.30 and 13.45 hours, our time this afternoon. She has slowed down a bit; it seems she’s sailing into a steep swell. The sheikh’s plane is scheduled to land at Menara airport, Marrakech, at 13.00 hours. If the switch to the helicopter goes quickly, they could be at Safi by 14.00 hours… We would prefer there to be more of a time gap before the helicopter arrives.’
‘Are they going to be well prepared?’ asked Rafi.
‘The terrorists still seem blissfully unaware that we are on to them,’ continued the adjutant. ‘The two SAS operatives we have undercover at Marrakech Airport have reported that the helicopter is unguarded, with just the pilot waiting. The sheikh meanwhile has two minders with him on board his jet. Both are big gorillas of men, but definitely not in the same league as the two Chechen mercenaries on Golden Sundancer.’
The adjutant pointed to the map. ‘In Safi, we have two highly experienced SAS soldiers – Major Mark Piggot and Sergeant Colin Blake. They have identified four heavies watching the harbour and if they’re anything like the Chechen mercenaries, they’ll have a real skirmish on their hands. Thankfully, the industrial part of the port is relatively deserted. In contrast, the nearby fishing boat quays are a hive of activity. From the location of the four heavies, we believe that the helicopter plans to land on the quay in the industrial part of the harbour, close to where Golden Sundancer is likely to berth.’
The adjutant paused and looked across at the screen. ‘As good fortune would have it, our friends on board Puddle Jumper seem to be in just the right place. Now that we’re certain Safi is the rendezvous point, the three SAS men at Mohammedia and the three at Casablanca are, as we speak, driving down the N1 to Safi. Roads permitting, they’ll be there in good time.’
‘What’s Jameel up to?’ asked Kate.
‘He finished a round of golf half an hour ago and is currently in the hotel bar. He’s packed his bags and ordered a taxi to the airport ten minutes ago. He’s the proud possessor of a couple of tracking devices: one in his shoe, which he left unattended whilst playing golf, and another in his hand luggage!’
On board Puddle Jumper the atmosphere was calm and relaxed. The retired commander and his wife were sitting on the aft deck, enjoying mugs of tea. They were joined by a scantily clad Lieutenant Anna Gregson, with a colourful caftan wrapped around her waist. She was followed by a similarly dressed Lieutenant Janet Steiner.
‘Been enjoying the sun?’ enquired their mother.
‘It’s fantastic up on the foredeck,’ replied Anna.
‘Any idea where your boyfriend Clive is?’ the commander asked.
‘Yes; he and Jim have gone on a bimble – said they had to see a man about a dog,’ replied Janet.
The commander nodded. ‘We’ve got about two and a half hours before we will have company, according to our friends.’
‘In which case,’ said Janet, ‘Time for a bit more sun on the foredeck.’
‘Remember the sunscreen,’ said their mother tossing a bottle in Anna’s direction.
‘Thanks mum!’
As the two women left for the bow of the boat, Jim and Clive climbed back on board and walked over to chat to the commander.
‘That was quick; I thought you were chatting to your SAS friends, Mark and Colin?’
‘We were. And we’ve sorted out what equipment we have between us. They’re rather well tooled-up. As long as a small army doesn’t arrive, they should give us more than enough cover.’
‘What do they make of the four heavies guarding the helicopter landing area?’ asked the commander.
‘Piece of piss!’ replied Clive. ‘The way they handle themselves and their guns, they’re no more than local hoodlums. All they seem to do is smoke cigarettes and talk; not one of them has even done a recce, which is good news.’
‘It’s the two Chechens on board Golden Sundancer that we have to be careful of,’ remarked Jim. ‘Oh, by the way, we reckon that Golden Sundancer will moor up 100 metres across from where we are.’
In the Ops Room, Rafi turned his attention to the flat screen TV. He watched the commentary preceding the PM’s speech in the House of Commons, where a political correspondent was standing inside the Houses of Parliament with a senior opposition MP on either side of her.
‘Gentlemen,’ began the interviewer, ‘Will there be a call for a vote of no confidence and will the Prime Minister survive this afternoon?’
‘My party will want to find out why things have gone so badly wrong and will wish to see those who have let this country down take responsibility for their negligence,’ replied the first MP.
The interviewer turned to the second politician. ‘It’s going to be very difficult for the PM and his Chancellor to put a lid on the financial fallout from Stratford, isn’t it?’
‘Undoubtedly. It’s going to cost the country tens if not hundreds of billions of pounds. This could sink our economy, our currency and scare the living daylights out of the markets. The last thing that we need is political uncertainty. I hope that the PM will find a way of getting the opposition parties involved with the process of getting the country out of this mess.’
The interviewer looked at the first MP. ‘If there’s a call for a vote of no confidence, what will the implications be?’
‘The Government has a tiny majority and will seek to tough things out. It’s more likely that pigs will fly, than for a recently elected Government to give up its reins on power.’
‘Thank you, gentlemen, and with that we return to the studio,’ concluded the political correspondent.
The special forces command centre and the Air Chief Marshal were in discussion with Clive and Jim. As things currently stood, the helicopter would land in Safi only minutes after Golden Sundancer berthed. Jim asked whether it might to possible to get them more time to overpower those on board before the helicopter arrived.
Accordingly, at Marrakech airport, a quick-thinking and inventive SAS operative borrowed the jacket of an airport worker and walked up to the helicopter. He had a water bottle filled with oil hidden in his pocket. The bottle had a tube – commandeered from a drinks machine – tightly inserted into its top which went down his trouser leg.
The disguised SAS man sauntered over to the pilot to enquire whether the helicopter would be requiring the help of a baggage handler. He was summarily sent away. As he left, he walked towards the back of the aircraft and stopped to tie his shoelace under the tail’s rotary engine. Job done. He got up and walked off. On the concrete apron behind him was a fresh puddle of oil.
The SAS man walked back to the airport buildings and found an airport security official. He explained that the helicopter he’d visited seemed to be leaking hydraulic fluid from its engine.
‘It’s probably nothing, but should someone look at it? We don’t want it to fall out of the sky.’
The security man had shrugged his shoulders and begrudgingly gone off to tell his boss. Nothing happened for some while. It seemed that the message hadn’t got through.
However, some minutes later, a relieved SAS man reported that a man dressed in overalls was on his way towards the helicopter. The conversation between the man and the helicopter pilot looked animated. The pilot eventually got out, looked at the fluid on the concrete and with a shrug of his shoulders agreed to let the man look at the engine. This entailed the engineer walking back to collect his tools and a stepladder.
There was a noticeable smile on the face of the officer in the special services command centre; the engineer was in no hurry and was slowing things up, just as required.
The sheikh’s plane landed at Marrakech Airport on time. It parked away from the passenger planes, next to a group of small private aircraft not far from the helicopter. Those on board were quickly cleared through customs and immigration. The sheikh met Jameel on the tarmac and they were seen smiling in the bright sunshine, next to their two heavily built security guards. However, on hearing the news of the delay, the sheikh hunched his shoulders and scowled.
At Safi, Golden Sundancer had turned on to the final approach to the harbour. As things stood, she would now arrive comfortably ahead of the helicopter.
Jim and Clive, with assistance from Mark and Colin, their SAS back-up, had three groups of people to take care of: six on board Golden Sundancer, the four heavies on the harbour side and the five people on the helicopter – fifteen hostile people. It was the two Chechen mercenaries on board Golden Sundancer and the two bodyguards with the sheikh to whom they would have to pay special attention.
The command centre made it clear that the mission was to capture all the terrorists alive. Casualties, if at all possible, should be avoided, but in the last resort be limited to the bodyguards and the heavies on the dockside. The politicians wanted the terrorists unharmed.
The Prime Minister was due to stand up in the Commons in less than fifteen minutes. Tension was rising in the packed chamber.
Back at Safi, preparations were complete. The plan was straightforward. When Golden Sundancer arrived, the two female naval officers would act as attractive distractions; meanwhile, Jim and Clive, the two SBS officers would slip on board via the swimming platform at the stern, neutralise those on board, then wait for the sheikh and his entourage to board the vessel and overpower them too. Mark and Colin would take care of the four heavies on the dockside.
The commander was standing next to the radar screen on Puddle Jumper. ‘I can see them on our radar; they’re approaching the outer harbour. ETA: four minutes,’ he said into his radio.
Colin confirmed that he had got Golden Sundancer in his binoculars. ‘The captain plus one are on the flybridge and two people are sitting on the foredeck, leaving two people below deck.’
Big Ben struck twice. Rafi, who had been following events in Safi on the screens, switched his attention across to the TV.
The Speaker of the House called: ‘Order, Order! Pray silence for the Prime Minister.’
The Prime Minister rose and moved to the dispatch box in front of him. He waited a few seconds. A hush fell over the packed House of Commons. Uncharacteristically, the PM took off his wristwatch and placed it face up on the dispatch box. The estimate he had been given was for the submarine to pick up of the captured terrorists at around 3.30 p.m. Maryam, meanwhile, would be smuggled out of Luxembourg. Only then could he reveal what had been going on. So much could go wrong. There were bound to be delays. It would therefore be something like two hours before he and his Chancellor could announce the full story.
There was a sense of anticipation in the air. The future of the Government lay in his hands. The next couple of hours would be crucial.
‘I come before the House with a heavy heart. The Stratford disaster will haunt us for years to come.’ The PM’s demeanour mirrored his words.
‘My Government and I wish to pay our humble respects to all those who have suffered from this disaster and to all those who will suffer from radiation poisoning in the future. I am mindful of all those who have lost everything. The efforts of the police, the armed services, doctors, nurses and emergency services deserve our thanks and praise. I pay tribute to all those who have played a role in the rehousing of those who lost their homes. In recognition of the deeds and acts of friendship, in future, the second Monday in February will be a public holiday. It will be a day to remember all those who suffered and a day to reflect. I hope that Stratford Day will become a day of good deeds and community works.’
One could have heard a pin drop.
‘The financial implications of the disaster will be explained by the Chancellor of the Exchequer shortly. He will set out what the Government will be doing to help those who have been caught up in this heinous and barbaric attack.’
The PM paused. ‘The trials and tribulations that now face our country are greater than at any time since the end of the last World War. It is imperative that unity and common purpose prevail.’
Rafi listened to the PM give an update on the tragedy, which included details on the dead, the dying, the dispossessed, the army’s progress in guarding and clearing the exclusion zone, its size and the problems they had overcome to stop radioactive materials polluting the water table and travelling down the River Lea.
The PM moved on to his policy initiatives. ‘The General Election, which was held less than a year ago, produced a finely balanced result. The number of votes cast for the two main parties was almost identical and the vote for the Liberal Democrats gave them a creditable third place. Ninety five per cent of the votes cast at the election were for the three main parties. The manifestos on which the election was fought were as similar as the political pundits could remember; indeed some called for a hung Parliament to bring in the dynamism and skills of the opposition parties.’
He paused. ‘The recent exploits of a few of my former ministers have highlighted the misguided and muddled thought processes of political apparatchiks. Their goal was to ingratiate themselves with the news gatherers and the media rather than to focus on doing their jobs well. For this I am deeply sorry. We were elected to run the country on behalf of the people and not to look good and score points as if we were on a TV game show. Last week, presidential style, single-party politics was the order of the day. As of Friday morning this all changed. It is our duty to pull together, work in harmony and deal with the aftermath of this tragedy. Therefore, this afternoon, my Chancellor and I shall be setting out my Government’s proposals which are designed to take us forward, with one voice.’
The PM glanced across at the opposition benches as he spoke. ‘Until such time as the country has recovered and its economy is prosperous again, I will be forming a Coalition Government and a new collective Cabinet drawn from across the political spectrum of this House. The Cabinet’s composition will be along the lines of Parliamentary committees. This morning I had an audience with the Queen and I also met with the leaders of Her Majesty’s two main opposition parties. We have agreed to identify a range of topics which will henceforth be outside the Punch and Judy nature of politics and will become a matter for consensus between the leading political parties. This will enable the Government to deliver long-term strategies and not quick fixes. The country will require this if it is to fully recover its dynamism.’
The PM had the complete attention of those listening to him.
‘A State of Emergency will continue until such time as the after-effects of Stratford have diminished. Lest those of you sitting on the back benches or in the Upper Chamber feel left out, Parliament will have a major role to play in scrutinising the legislation that will be put forward by the Coalition Government – a National Government. Transparency and genuine debate will be key elements of this process.’
The PM hesitated and looked across to the Speaker of the House. ‘This Government recognises that responsibility has to be taken for the disaster. The air has to be cleared to forestall any accusations that there might be in this House. I have accepted the resignations of the Home Secretary, a minister and two junior ministers in the Home Office. I will talk about their replacements shortly.’
This statement was met by gasps.
The PM continued resolutely. ‘I have also accepted resignations from all those public servants in charge of nuclear safety matters and the board members of the company responsible for running nuclear freight trains. My Cabinet has arranged for a number of senior executives from leading energy and industrial companies to be seconded to take their places in the short to medium term. I am pleased to report to the House that a distinguished former leader of an opposition party has agreed to work with the new Home Secretary, as the Home Office minister with responsibility for Homeland Security. He has put on hold all his private business activities and speaking engagements. Some might say that the Home Office is a poisoned chalice; others might view it as an opportunity. I am pleased that the former party leader takes the latter view.’
The PM paused and took a sip of water, looked at his watch, and continued. ‘I shall be announcing the details of my Cabinet reshuffle over the next twenty-four hours; this will include the name of the new Home Secretary and the other key ministers of State. I have not asked them yet, as many of them sit on the benches opposite me and today their role is to hold this Government to account. In picking the new members of the Cabinet, I have borne in mind that there is no substitute for real world experience. The pendulum has swung too far. Too many members of the Government have little or no experience outside the political arena. This is unhealthy and undesirable.’
The camera swung around the House. The brooding menace which had been in the air over the opposition benches had lessened. The inclusive proposals had taken those in the Chamber by surprise – so far so good.
Golden Sundancer had her fenders out on her port side. With a delicate touch, she was brought alongside the harbour wall about eighty metres across from Puddle Jumper. The captain and Basel were on the flybridge. The muscular frame of Dakka Dudayev, the Stratford terrorist, could be seen standing at the stern. The slight figure of Kim Chindriani, one of the recruiters of the bombers, was at the bow. They threw lines to the two heavies waiting at the edge of the harbour wall. The ropes were passed round heavy metal bollards and back on board. Bow and stern springs were attached and a gangway was put in place.
‘That leaves Sergy Kowshaya, the Chechen terrorist, and Alistair Hartnell, Basel’s number two, below deck,’ said Mark over the radio from the shadows of the harbour side. ‘What are the odds that they are suffering from seasickness?’
As if on cue, two very dishevelled and ashen-looking men stumbled on deck and walked shakily down the gangway to dry land, both dropping to their knees and kissing the ground.
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said a voice from the command centre. ‘Kowshaya definitely looks below par.’
Meanwhile, the retired commander, his wife and two daughters had come out onto the foredeck of Puddle Jumper to watch the arrival of their neighbour. Janet waved to the man standing on the harbour side by the bow of Golden Sundancer. Unnoticed, Clive and Jim slipped over the stern in their grey, lightweight wetsuits, and sleek air tanks strapped to their backs.
The command centre had briefed the two SBS men. ‘We’ve identified a blind spot, three to four metres from the stern of Golden Sundancer at her waterline, on her starboard side. Suggest you wait there.’
They slid out of sight below the water, hugged the harbour wall and quietly surfaced at the specified blind spot. They shed their air tanks and flippers, and waited for the signal that the coast was clear and it was safe to climb on board via the swimming platform. Sergy Kowshaya and Alistair Hartnell meanwhile had returned below deck.
The Prime Minister was now thirty minutes into his speech. He was talking about nuclear power and the importance of the UK being self-sufficient in energy terms. ‘The security of our energy supplies is crucial. In a modern society, energy is a cornerstone on which the foundations of a civilised way of life are built. We have suffered the devastating impact of a nuclear disaster. Maintaining the status quo is no longer an option. In the last Parliament a decision was taken which seemed to be the simplest and most convenient zero carbon option.’ He paused and looked around the House. ‘The go-ahead was given for?50 billion to be spent on a new generation of nuclear power stations for the 2020s. This, in hindsight, was rushed and did not address the scale of the risks involved… With nuclear power there is an infinitesimal probability of things going wrong, but when they do, the hazards are so extreme that they dwarf the benefits. The debate should have focused on how self-sufficiency could have been achieved without nuclear power… As things currently stand, in these times of terrorist threats, nuclear power has become too vulnerable, and too risky. However, it may still have a role to play, but only when the transportation, storage and security risks have been addressed, in a thoroughly uncompromising manner. Then and only then can it be brought back onto the agenda.’
The PM looked up at the camera. ‘With this in mind, a Ministry for Energy and Scarce Resources will be created. It will be tasked with moving forward energy savings, the development of sustainable and efficient renewable energy technology and the efficient use of this country’s energy resources. It will work with the Treasury and provide the stimuli required to make us use our existing natural resources wisely. The Treasury’s role will be central to our move to energy self-sufficiency and nuclear-free electricity generation. Accordingly, I have commissioned a report from a panel of experts on how Britain can deal with the impending fifty percent energy shortfall. Their detailed findings will be discussed by my new Cabinet, and we shall place our proposals before Parliament at the earliest opportunity.’
The PM paused, looked down at his watch and continued. ‘In particular, this panel is considering clean coal technology, carbon capture and sequestration techniques. The Victorians recognised the importance of sanitation and built a network of sewers to counter the threats of disease. We now recognise the threat of climate change. With this in mind, the panel is looking at the benefits of building a network of pipelines to collect carbon dioxide from the largest carbon polluters so that it can be stored cost-effectively underground.’ He rearranged his papers, looked at his watch again and continued. ‘British coal is an energy source steeped in political emotions. It transformed our country’s economy during the Industrial Revolution. It is a valuable resource which we have prematurely discarded. The country has a couple of hundred years of retrievable reserves and, unlike oil and gas where exporters act like a cartel, with coal there is a free market with over 100 countries exporting it. Clean coal will play an integral part in our future and our ability to become energy self-sufficient and environmentally responsible…’
A movement on the main screen caught Rafi’s eye and his attention shifted. The Air Chief Marshal was speaking to the SBS command centre.
News had just come in from the six SAS soldiers travelling to Safi. Two trucks had collided on the bridge at Azemmour, blocking the road to all traffic. Unexpectedly they were facing a slow 45 km detour via the next bridge upriver at Maachou and were likely to miss the party. Colonel Gray was not pleased.
The PM had moved on to a new topic. ‘On the Homeland Security front, we must of course ensure that coordinated attacks, as suffered on Friday, never happen again. Over the past few years the security associated with airport travel has been tightened up. However, the security associated with our land borders has been shown to be unfit for purpose. Our immigration rules and methods of identifying who is legitimately in this country and who is here illegally are too lax and seriously wanting. I am not a believer in identity cards nor in Orwellian Big Brotherstyle interference in people’s lives, however, the system must be improved.’
The PM glanced across to the opposition benches. ‘I will ask the new Home Office minister in charge of Homeland Security to draw up proposals which will provide transparency as to who is in our country. Biometrics will be used for the unique identification of individuals. The software, I am advised, is available to facilitate this. I repeat: this is not the thin end of the wedge for the full-scale issuance of identity cards. One secure biometric database will be created and it will be used to confirm a person’s identity. Name, date of birth, contact address, photograph, fingerprints, iris scan and other such biometric data, as appropriate, will be stored on the database. Biometric information will be gathered at police stations and specialist Homeland Security offices free of charge. Visitors to the UK will be required to provide biometric data at their point of entry.’
The PM took a sip water. ‘This database will be available online for a restricted number of users, so that they can confirm a person’s identity. However, these users will only be able to confirm that the individual is who they say they are, by checking their biometric details online. We have become accustomed to having our PIN number checked when we withdraw cash from a cashpoint machine – this will be a broadly similar process. No part, I repeat, no part of the database will be available for downloading. In future, an individual’s biometric information will be checked as part of the process of obtaining a passport or driving licence and verification will be real time, online at an official office. Furthermore, as from 1 September, all new car insurance policies will require named drivers – each of whose identity will need to be verified against the biometric database.’
‘Over a relatively short period of time, users of public services such as, for example, the National Health Service, social and local authority services, tax offices and the Electoral Register will be required to be on the biometric database. However, I stress that each database will remain separate. It is fundamental that they do. The State does not wish to invade people’s privacy, but it does need to know the names of the people in our country, have a point of contact for them and know the basis on which they are here. It is currently not possible for the Home Office to give an accurate estimate of the number of people in the UK. Too many people are off the radar screen. The numbers run into hundreds of thousands. This is totally unacceptable. Those who are here illegally or without the appropriate documentation will be identified. There will be duplicates and anomalies, and these will be investigated by the authorities.’
The PM paused to let what he had just said sink in.
At the airport, the sheikh was beginning to get annoyed by the delay. He pulled out a wad of banknotes and gave them to one of his bodyguards, with instructions to hurry the mechanic up. Minutes later, as if by magic, the mechanic reappeared carrying an aluminium stepladder on his shoulder and a large toolbox. He set up his ladder and climbed up to the rotary engine, then removed a side panel and looked in. He stood there for a minute, seemingly tinkering around. He closed the panel, gave the pilot the thumbs up and walked slowly back to the buildings.
The helicopter was ready to get on its way to Safi. The thirtyminute delay was all that had been needed.
Once again Rafi’s attention shifted to the action at Safi.
Dakka Dudayev had left Golden Sundancer and was enjoying a cigarette on the quayside. Janet and Anna waved at him and his brief acknowledgement was taken by them as an invitation to go over to him. They hopped off Puddle Jumper and, in a carefree manner, walked around the harbour towards Dakka, with their caftans flowing in the wind. The material was bunched up and tied around their hips, thus obscuring the small pistols that were tucked into their bikini bottoms. Under their hair, out of sight, were miniature headphones, and tiny microphones were hidden in their bikini tops.
Janet approached Dakka as if he was the first red-blooded male she’d seen for a very long while. Anna stood nearby, looking on shyly. The two women giggled like teenage girls. They looked beautiful, flirty and helpless.
On Golden Sundancer, the captain and Basel were still on the flybridge. Dakka was on the quayside and this left the three remaining individuals below deck. It would soon be time for Clive and Jim to make their move.
Over the radio came the voice of Mark, one of the SAS men. ‘The captain is calling up the harbour master about refuelling. There’s no reply. He is sending Sergy to investigate.’
Sergy hesitantly walked up the gangway, and then off along the harbour side. As he passed Puddle Jumper, he received a friendly ‘Good afternoon’ from the commander’s wife who was sitting in the sun on the aft deck.
Sergy was about to discover the problem. The harbour master was lying unconscious at his desk – he had received a knock out blow from Colin, the second SAS soldier, who had also bugged the room and placed a small gismo looking like a Coke can in the rubbish bin. It was a radio-controlled device containing some of the strongest knockout gas known.
Rafi’s attention switched back to the TV. The PM was in his stride. His sound bites were excellent.
‘Stratford has shown how a few kilograms of radioactive waste can blight a vast area for millennia. The UK owns tonnes of highly toxic radioactive waste. Post Stratford the threat of being able to disperse radioactivity over an aggressor’s city will be as strong a deterrent as annihilating it with a Trident missile. We can therefore put to one side the next generation of Trident missiles and switch to lower cost, but highly effective dispersal missiles which will make use of our stockpile of radioactive waste. These dispersal missiles will include radioactive isotopes that will glow in the dark, so that there can be no misunderstanding as to where the radioactive fall-out is located. The switch from Trident to dispersal missiles will save tens of billions, and we will channel these massive savings into higher education and academic research. This will counter the underinvestment which higher education has suffered over the past three decades – during this time we have seen the relative rankings of our universities on the global stage slip. Despite this, fourteen of our universities are in the top 100 in the world; twenty-five are in the top 200 and forty-three are in the top 500. These are figures we can be proud of. UK higher education is an area of international excellence. We shall build on this excellence and it will benefit our economy.’
The PM then paused and again looked at his watch. It was coming up to 14.30 – he and the Chancellor still had a lot more talking to do.
Kate nudged Rafi and pointed towards the screens and the action taking place at Safi harbour.
Mark, who had been carefully watching Golden Sundancer, gave the all-clear. Clive and Jim slipped quietly on to the bathing platform. They peeled off their waterproof suits to reveal dry clothes underneath. Silently, they moved forward, their automatic pistols drawn. Basel Talal and the captain were on the flybridge, chatting, whereas Sergy and Dakka were ashore. That left Kim Chindriani and Alistair Hartnell below deck.
Mark’s monitoring device pinpointed the location of the two people in the cabins. Clive and Jim crept silently through the boat’s main stateroom and proceeded down the stairs to the cabins. They were directed towards the two men on their bunks.
Forty-five nail-biting seconds later Jim’s voice came over the speaker: ‘Both men are inoperative. They’re gagged and tied up. Please advise when we should expect our next customer.’
Two terrorists down, six more terrorists and six bodyguards to go, Rafi thought to himself.
Along the quay, Sergy arrived at the harbour master’s office. He quietly approached the shabby front door, which was closed. His hand was tucked under his loosely fitting shirt. Concealed forty metres away, Colin noted that he was undoubtedly armed. Sergy looked around before he pushed the door open and entered the tired-looking building. He closed it behind him. A torrent of what Rafi could only imagine were Chechen swear words were picked up by the listening device.
Sergy was obviously far from pleased. He pulled out a small walkie-talkie. The bug picked up his conversation with the captain. ‘The harbour master is pissed out of his mind; sprawled out cold across his desk with an empty bottle of Scotch in his hand. I’ll sober him up and come back to the boat. Out!’
Colin listened in and pressed the red button on the small grey box in his hand. The knockout gas in what looked like a Coke can was released into the room. Six seconds later there was a resounding thump as the Chechen’s body hit the floor. Colin moved unobtrusively from his hiding place and skirted around the back of the harbour master’s office, out of the line of sight of those on Golden Sundancer. He put on a clear plastic gas mask, pulled out from his back pocket a scrunched-up flannel hat and placed it on his head. He stood there, waiting for the all-clear signal from his colleague who was observing the captain on the flybridge. As Basel Talal turned to descend the stairs to the main deck level, Colin casually walked around to the front of the harbour master’s office, and slipped quietly inside.
A minute later Sergy was trussed up like a Christmas turkey, as was the harbour master, just in case either woke up, which, given the circumstances, was highly improbable. Both men would be out for at least two hours; far longer if either of them suffered from a weak heart or asthma. Colin radioed in that the two had been tied up and, on hearing that the coast was still clear, sneaked out of the office, making sure that the door was left slightly ajar to let the fresh air in to disperse the knockout gas. He then walked around the back of the buildings to join Mark who was watching the heavies as they waited for the helicopter.
As Sergy was being tied up in the harbour master’s office, Clive and Jim received a warning through their ear pieces from Mark that Basel Talal was on his way to his cabin. He was ambushed. Not being trained in unarmed combat, he didn’t stand a chance and didn’t see what was coming. Unconscious and securely trussed up, he was left by Jim in his cabin, propped up in a chair.
Outside, on the quay, Janet and Anna were doing their best to chat up Dakka.
He was interested in them, but his training told him that there would be time later. He spotted the captain descending from the flybridge and turned to leave.
In their earpieces the two women received an order: ‘Slow him down; we don’t want him on board for a couple of minutes. Will advise when it’s safe for him to board.’
Janet called after Dakka. ‘Before you go, would you by any chance have a bottle of vodka we could borrow? Our parents are so boring; they don’t like people drinking on board. Please, please; we would make it worth your while!’
Dakka stopped and gave the two attractive women an appraising look. ‘Wait there and I’ll see what I can find.’
Janet moved alongside him and followed him towards the gangplank.
‘We need another thirty seconds – do not let him board,’ came an urgent voice over the communications link. Anna broke into a run, caught up with Janet, tripped and went flying on to the concrete quayside. She let out a howl and a series of expletives. Janet bent over her friend who was spreadeagled on the ground. ‘Sis, are you alright?’
‘Oow, I’ve really hurt my knee.’
Dakka stayed where he was.
Janet helped Anna to sit up. Blood was streaming down her leg from a nasty gash in her knee.
Dakka looked down at Anna and then in a matter-of-fact manner said, ‘I’ll fetch the first aid kit.’ He paused briefly and then added, ‘And a bottle of vodka. Wait here.’
Moments earlier Mark had given a warning to Jim and Clive that the captain was on his way below deck.
The captain sensed something was wrong as he was about to enter his cabin. As he turned to investigate, he was felled by a strong blow to the side of his neck.
‘Damn it! Clive,’ exclaimed Jim, ‘You nearly took his head off.’
‘Yep, But how was I to know he was going to turn around.’
The captain was securely bound up and dumped on his bed.
Clive and Jim waited silently and out of sight at the bottom of the stairs.
Dakka meanwhile, went to a cupboard in the stateroom and pulled out a bottle of vodka, then turned and collected the first aid box from the stern deck. He walked down the gangplank to the two women huddled on the quayside. He handed them the bottle and the box. ‘Put the box on the gangway when you’ve finished. I’m busy now. I’ll see you later for my reward.’
Meanwhile, Clive and Jim had climbed the stairs and were waiting in the stateroom. Their earpieces kept them informed as to where their target was. Dakka walked down the gangplank and through the open door into the stateroom. His sixth sense told him he wasn’t alone. He spun around to see Jim coming at him. Instinctively, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and let fly a lethal drop kick which caught Jim just below the shoulder, knocking him backwards. Jim started to pick himself up, but was too slow: Dakka was on him, his powerful hands locked around Jim’s neck, pinning him to the floor.
There was an almighty crash. Dakka slumped unconscious across Jim’s body. The remnants of a heavy glass decanter were scattered across the carpet.
Jim struggled to regain his breath, as Clive hauled the muscled man off him. Moments later, Clive had Dakka’s arms tightly secured behind his back with reinforced plastic handcuffs.
‘Thanks,’ said Jim, as Clive carried on immobilising the terrorist.
Jim got up slowly. ‘For a heavy man, he sure moved quickly! I reckon the bastard has either broken my collarbone or dislocated my shoulder.’
‘No good asking you for a hand in getting him down below, then?’ Clive dragged Dakka across the stateroom and, with a series of loud bumps, down the stairs.
He reappeared a few moments later. ‘I’ve put him with the captain. Right, let’s have a look at you.’ Clive stood in front of Jim. ‘Lift your arm as high as you can. Is that all you can manage? Does it hurt here?’ He prodded Jim’s collarbone area.
‘Not much.’
‘Think of something nice; your girlfriend with no clothes on – got the picture?’
Jim nodded.
Clive took hold of his arm and with a quick upward motion relocated his shoulder back into place.
‘Jesus!’ screeched Jim. ‘That was painful.’
‘Come on, let’s see what you can do with your injured arm. Can you hold a gun?’
Jim nodded.
‘You will be useless in a fight unless the opposition has a blouse on,’ commented Clive.
‘Six out of six accounted for on the boat. This leaves the four minders on the quayside and five in the helicopter.’ Rafi smiled as he listened to the radio transmission.
The sheikh’s helicopter was about fifteen minutes away.
Meanwhile the Nimrod picked up the mobile phone conversation between the sheikh’s bodyguard and one of the heavies on the quayside. ‘Is everything OK? I’ve tried to ring the captain but there’s no answer.’
The heavy standing on the quayside looked across at Golden Sundancer. ‘All quiet here. The captain has gone below; probably getting ready to meet you.’
‘Good. We’ll be with you shortly.’
Rafi made a mental calculation. The operation was running about twenty minutes behind schedule. He hoped the PM and his Chancellor had sufficient material to keep on talking, then noticed that the PM was being handed a folded piece of paper.
Colonel Gray, standing nearby in the Ops Room, had arranged for its delivery only a few minutes earlier. The note read: Terrorists on boat at Safi have been captured. The helicopter with the sheikh and Jameel onboard is en route and expected to land in the next fifteen minutes. We estimate it will take sixty to seventy-five minutes to wrap things up.
At the dispatch box the Prime Minister was handed a sheet of paper. He slowly read the message – his face gave nothing away. He then turned and passed it across to his Chancellor, who read it, smiled and tapped the pile of files on his lap. The PM took a deep breath and continued. He was a professional, carrying on if his prolonged speech was the most natural thing in the world.
‘The role of our armed forces has to be reconsidered. Our military forces must be properly equipped to defend us against terrorist attacks. We have to change our strategy and start fighting – not with brute force but with minds and souls. Post Iraq we have surrendered the moral high ground. Our international image is tarnished. We must rebuild trust in ourselves and our country.’
The PM was in flowing form. ‘It is time to restore our sense of fair play and equity. Warfare has changed. It has moved from the macro level and large theatres of war, to the micro level and local operations. We need to refocus our military prowess and twin our military might with our anti-terrorist expertise. Stratford has been the wake-up call to end all wake-up calls. We have to be able to counter terrorist attacks on our own soil and have the wherewithal to deal with major calamities should they ever arise again. We must have personnel and equipment fit for purpose. I have asked the head of the armed forces and the Defence Minister to prepare a briefing note to this end for Cabinet. Part of their brief will be to consider the valuable role that the Territorial Army and former military personnel can play. In particular, they will look at the specialist skills they can offer, and will advise on how they might be appropriately rewarded for their part-time commitment to our military activities.’
On the dockside, Anna’s knee had been patched up by Janet. The two women slowly walked back to Puddle Jumper clutching the first aid box and the bottle of vodka. They had been informed via their earpieces that Dakka had been overpowered.
Anna smiled; the gash to her knee had been worthwhile.
On board Puddle Jumper, she was given a hot cup of tea with sugar by the commander’s wife.
The commander was deep in thought, looking over the charts in front of him.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked Janet.
‘I reckon it’s always a good idea to know exactly where everything is, just in case things turn interesting and one has to leave in a hurry,’ came the reply.
The sound of an approaching helicopter caught their attention and that of the four heavies.
Across on Golden Sundancer, a mobile phone started ringing in the cabin where Basel had been stowed. Clive opened the door and pulled the phone out of Basel’s trouser pocket.
It was Jameel. ‘Baz, Jamie here; we’ll be landing in a couple of minutes. The sheikh is most pleased and wants to congratulate you personally. He says he’s looking forward to the London markets reopening tomorrow. And he says by then, he’ll have jumped up the world’s rich list by umpteen places. His positions in Frankfurt and Chicago should also show fantastic profits; he’s going to close all his positions tomorrow and send the markets spiralling down. We’re all going to be fantastically rich it’ll be difficult to count the noughts! Baz, are you there?’Jameel heard the sound of a lavatory flushing and a muffled voice.
Clive hung up and smiled.
The helicopter hovered over the area, next to where the heavies were standing, preparing to land.
Clive and Jim rummaged around in the captain’s and Basel’s cupboards. Jim found a Panama hat and gaudy striped shirt. He slowly took off his top and replaced it with the loud shirt, put the hat on his head and walked up to the stateroom to join Clive, who was wearing the captain’s hat and a tight-fitting white jacket.
They pulled up two chairs and positioned them so that they were partially facing away from the open door, yet would be visible from where the helicopter was landing. They could be seen from the quayside enjoying a drink. It was as though the captain and Basel were casually waiting for their guests to arrive.
Mark and Colin, who had been patiently waiting in the shadows, spoke quietly to each other.
‘I can see my targets, but can’t get near them,’ said Colin.
‘Not much cover to help me either,’ remarked Mark.
A crisp voice from the command centre cut in. ‘If necessary take them out and move on – and provide backup for Jim and Clive. Remember, it is the sheikh and Jameel we want unharmed. If the others get in the way, so be it. Got that?’
Under the noise of the helicopter landing, the quiet pops of the silenced guns were inaudible. The two heavies who had moved back to the nearby buildings slumped to the ground with bullet holes to the chest and forehead.
Rafi winced, but told himself that the stakes were too high for niceties. It all felt a bit unreal.
Mark and Colin shifted their location to get a better line of sight. The rotors were still whirring when the two remaining heavies, with their heads held low, ran forward and opened the side doors. The two bodyguards were the first to step out; they were closely followed by Jameel and the sheikh. The group started walking towards Golden Sundancer. Jameel and the sheikh were at ease, smiling and talking to each other. They didn’t notice anything untoward, until it was too late.
Jim, with the brim of his panama hat pulled down at a jaunty angle and his bright shirt catching the light, waved energetically to Jameel, raised a glass in the air and returned to his conversation with the captain.
Anna and Janet stepped off Puddle Jumper and made their way towards Golden Sundancer with the first aid box. They arrived just before the group from the helicopter. Their flimsy flowing kaftans caught the eye of Jameel, who strolled over to say hello.
Meanwhile, the sheikh and his two bodyguards headed towards the gangway. Then, one of the bodyguards heard the spluttering of silenced gun fire and turned to see the two heavies, who had greeted them, lying on the ground by the helicopter. He let out a loud warning shout and pulled out his gun.
Over the radio came the command from Mark, the closest SAS soldier: ‘They’ve gone hostile. Take them out.’
There was more spluttering of silenced guns. The sheikh’s two bodyguards fell on the spot where they had been standing.
The helicopter pilot, sensing danger, fired up his engine, but wasn’t fast enough. Colin broke cover, sprinted across and with his gun pointing through the window, beckoned the pilot to turn the engine off. The sound from the rotor blades faded.
The sheikh lunged forward to grab his bodyguard’s gun, which was lying nearby on the ground.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I was you,’ warned Clive, who was standing on the gangway, his gun trained on the sheikh. ‘Move once and you lose your manhood; move twice and you lose your mobility!’ The sheikh froze. Clive walked towards him, slowly.
‘What do you want?’ he growled.
‘Maryam sends her best wishes. She’s set you up; her freedom for yours. She has all your account details and, with you behind bars, she gets everything,’ he said, enjoying the wind-up.
‘The devious little harlot,’ spat out the sheikh.
Clive swung him round and secured his hands tightly behind his back with plastic handcuffs. He spoke to the command centre. ‘The sheikh has been apprehended.’
Anna, meanwhile, had been standing less than three metres from Jameel when the shooting started. Jameel stood there, transfixed, watching as those around him fell. He returned his gaze to the beautiful woman standing near him. There, in the palm of her hand was a small shiny revolver.
‘Don’t move,’ she ordered. ‘At this range I can choose whether I hit you in the heart or perhaps the head. Either way, if you move you’re dead.’
Jameel stood still. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Silence!’ Anna ordered, or you leave here in a box.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Silence!’ ordered Anna again. ‘You’ll get explanations in good time.’
Jim walked over. ‘Need a hand?’ he enquired.
He didn’t wait for an answer. He swivelled Jameel around and with a firm grip secured his hands behind his back with a pair of handcuffs, and then proceeded to frisk him. ‘He isn’t armed; he’s all yours.’
‘Thanks,’ said Anna, ‘Why do you boys get all the fun?’
Jameel looked from Anna to Jim. ‘Who are you?’
‘Friends of Maryam,’ came Jim’s reply.
At that moment, an urgent message came through to the command centre from the Nimrod. ‘Moroccan air traffic control has picked up a distress call from the helicopter pilot.’
They played it back. ‘Sheikh Tufayl, a worthy friend of Mohammed, has been kidnapped by hijackers at Safi docks. The hijackers have a large motor vessel. There have been shootings and killings; we are all in grave danger.’
The pilot had started to repeat his message, facing away from Colin, when he heard the thump of the butt of his gun against the window. He turned, looked down the barrel of Colin’s gun and fell silent.
‘Moroccan air traffic control has informed the police and the Royal Moroccan Air Force,’ came the message from the Nimrod.
‘Time to get out,’ ordered the command centre. ‘We suggest you take Golden Sundancer. Get out of there quick. You probably have less than five minutes before the local police arrive and less than half an hour before fighter planes come to have a look.’
Clive shouted to Mark. ‘We have to get Sergy. I left him trussed up in a cupboard in the harbour master’s office.’
The two men left for the office at a sprint.
The command centre was speaking to the commander on Puddle Jumper. ‘There isn’t time to transfer the prisoners to your vessel. Take command of Golden Sundancer; check she has enough fuel and prepare her for immediate departure. Suggest you take your local charts with you and leave now.’
The commander grabbed his charts and a few personal belongings and called across to his wife to gather up all she needed quickly. They ran as fast as they could in the direction of the terrorists’ boat.
The PM was winding down his speech. ‘I have set the scene for the next phase of British politics. It will be consensus politics. The three largest political parties speak for ninety five percent of those who voted in the recent general election and their representatives in the Cabinet will have much work to do.’ He paused as the members of the minority parties stirred with disaffection. ‘However, I recognise that it would not be a good idea to leave out members of the minority parties, especially those representing the regions.’
The PM looked across to the minority parties and their representatives. ‘I am aware that there are some very able people who sit in this House, who are not members of one of the three main parties. Rest assured, you will have a role to play. I have been heartened by the generous offers of help that have come from Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. As part of the Union, all parts of the UK will have responsibility in shaping our countries’ future. London has been the powerhouse that has driven the UK economy for decades. Post-Stratford, it is an inevitable truth that London’s economy will struggle, with nearly one-sixth of its population displaced and almost one-twentieth of its land now unfit for human habitation. Our capital must now be joined by cities across the UK in the quest to regain our competitive and prosperous economy. Regional cities must pick up the baton and push our economy forward.’
He glanced to his left towards the Speaker. ‘These are exceptional times. I propose to break with tradition, if the Speaker permits, and ask the Chancellor of the Exchequer to follow me with his proposals on how to get this great Country back on its feet. After the Honourable Member has set out his proposals, I shall face any questions the Members of this House might wish to put.’
The Speaker nodded and the PM picked up his watch.
If all went to plan the Chancellor would need to speak for just less than fifty minutes, plus the time it took to capture Maryam. Then the news of the terrorists’ capture could be made public and the round-up could begin.
The PM stood aside to let the Chancellor move to the dispatch box. The Chancellor took off his watch and placed it to one side in front of him. He had with him his notes and a small pile of different coloured wallet files, which he stacked neatly next to his watch.
The polite silence continued for the Chancellor. Rafi sensed that the fireworks were being reserved for the questions after his speech.
The Chancellor’s face was strained and unsmiling. His voice was unruffled, but sombre. ‘Our economy and the Government’s finances have suffered a second massive blow. Just as we thought we were coming to terms with the first shock to the system – the debilitating effects of the global credit crunch – we have been hit by a nuclear catastrophe. We face financially perilous times which will necessitate significant changes in order to steer our economy back to safe waters.’
Those in the Chamber sat in silence as they waited for the gravity of the position to be fully revealed. ‘I will, this afternoon, set out how the Government plans to remedy the position and I shall be introducing a range of initiatives to facilitate the rebuilding of our economy…’
The commander had reached Golden Sundancer – a big sister to Puddle Jumper. He bounded up on to her fly deck. ‘Phew!’ The ignition key was still in place.
He turned the key and pressed the ignition buttons. The turbo diesels roared into life. He ran through the checks.
He was talking to himself under his breath. ‘The auxiliary fuel tanks are both empty, but the main tank is probably good for 100, maybe 150 miles. That should be more than enough. This is going to be fun!’ He never dreamt that he would find such heavy duty power again. ‘It’s going to be like the Sabre class vessels; what a way to feel young again!’
He called across to Lieutenant Anna Gregson. ‘Cast off and stow the fore and aft springs – then man the bow line.’
In the direction of Lieutenant Janet Steiner he shouted, ‘Prepare to stow the gangway. And Jim, man the stern line.’
The commander saw the door to the harbour master’s office swing open. Clive and his SAS colleague, Mark, were carrying the deadweight of the bear-like terrorist; they had an arm under each of his shoulders, leaving his feet to drag along the ground. They were doing something more than a trot, but they were still over 200 metres away. The commander did some mental arithmetic.
Meanwhile Colin had handcuffed the helicopter pilot to his joystick and as a parting gesture fired a couple of bullets into the helicopter’s radio and fuel tank. For the time being at least the helicopter would be going nowhere. He then tidied up the bodies of the six bodyguards and left them sitting on the concrete with their guns on their laps.
The commander called across to Jim. ‘Move the stern painter to the starboard side and make certain it can run freely around the bollard on the quayside. Stand by the cleat until you receive further orders.’
‘Aye, aye, sir. Runs freely,’ came the reply.
‘Lieutenant Gregson, check that the bow painter runs freely and prepare to cast off.’
‘Runs freely, sir.’
The commander turned to his wife who was standing behind him. ‘Darling, would you please find a boat hook and when I say “Cast off bow”, push hard at the quayside wall and swing the bow out into the harbour?’
He turned and looked astern. ‘Jim, when I call “Cast off bow”, let out three metres of mooring line – no more – and hold her until I say “Cast off stern”. Mind there are no knots to snag the rope -and watch your fingers!’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
In the distance there was the wailing of police sirens. They were getting closer. The two special services men were making good progress carrying the unconscious terrorist. They only had a few metres to go. The commander waited patiently for them to reach the gangway. Sergy was unceremoniously dragged on board by the SAS officer and Clive.
The commander shouted, ‘Stow gangway, cast off bow, let out stern line and, darling, push!’ He then eased the control for the port engine forward and the starboard engine slightly into reverse. The boat, which was still secured to the quayside with a stern line to her starboard side, turned on a sixpence. At that moment he caught sight of the first police car. Moments later, the bow was facing the opposite side of the harbour and was swinging round to face out to sea.
The commander called out, ‘Cast off stern!’
Jim, thinking of his fingers and the taught rope, took out his razor-sharp knife and cut the lines secured to the rear stanchion. At that moment the commander pushed forward the throttles to both engines. The vessel was like a wild stallion that had been tied down and suddenly allowed to run free. With the engines roaring, the stern dug deep into the water. The commander by now had the throttles towards their maximum revs.
The commander shouted, ‘Lieutenants: stow the fenders and prepare for sea.’
The harbour water was like a millpond. Golden Sundancer, with the power of her two turbo engines propelling her forward, gracefully lifted her bow up out of the water and on to the plane.
The commander looked over his shoulder and saw that the first police car was 150 metres away. Golden Sundancer was almost up to her cruising speed. He smiled. He was enjoying the feeling of the immense power beneath his feet.
‘I’ll give a prize,’ shouted out the commander, ‘To the first man or woman who can cause a distraction on the quayside. A car’s petrol tank perhaps? We want them to keep their heads down until we get out of range.’
Clive passed Anna his rifle. ‘See if you can hit something.’
With the skill of a trained professional, she picked up the rifle and fired at the nearest police car. At that moment there was a huge explosion which ripped apart the nearest harbour building, followed by a second explosion further down the quayside. The quayside was torn apart and a plume of dark smoke erupted from the tall storage tank behind the buildings. The police car screeched to a halt and the policemen dived for cover.
Clive shot a glance at Colin standing nearby and laughed.‘Damn good shooting!’ he exclaimed and gave Anna a firm pat on the back. Her bemused smile stretched from ear to ear.
Hidden from view, in the palm of the of Colin’s hand, was a small radio-controlled transmitter which had set off the explosions. He grinned at Clive. ‘So nice, for once, to be properly prepared for a retreat.’
The commander called down. ‘See if you can hole Puddle Jumper’s hull. She’s the next fastest vessel in the area and we don’t want her coming after us.’
Anna and the two SAS soldiers trained their rifles on Puddle Jumper. Flecks of spray appeared along her waterline as the shots reached their target.
The commander on the flybridge had the engine throttles forward to their maximum. He looked at the rev counters. The port engine had crept into the red. He eased it back to below the red and, at the same time, balanced the revs on the starboard engine. Golden Sundancer was making forty-nine knots. She was pure poetry in motion. He cast an eye over to the chart which he had been studying carefully earlier in the day. The channel posed few problems. Phase one was complete. It was time for phase two: getting out of Moroccan territorial waters, into the freedom of international waters and on to the rendezvous with the submarine twenty miles off the coast.
Jim, who had climbed up on to the flybridge, called out, ‘Permission to come on to the bridge, commander,’ as he mounted the last step.
The commander turned around. ‘Yes. Jim, could you sort out the radio? I need to find out from command centre what the incoming Moroccan Air Force is up to. In a few minutes we’ll be in open water. I need to know which direction they are approaching from.’
Jim sat down next to the radio and changed the settings.
‘Here you are, commander.’
‘It’s all yours Jim; I’ve the charts to work on.’ The commander called down to his wife. ‘Darling, could you come up to the flybridge?’ She bounced up the stairs like a young rating and he gave her some instructions: ‘Right, your task is to steer a course of due west and to keep an eye on the two rev counters, the temperature and oil pressure dials. Anything untoward, please shout! We’re making straight for international waters.’
The swell in the Atlantic Ocean had eased, and the waves, though several metres tall, were long and well spaced out. Golden Sundancer was skimming across the water; being light on fuel helped. These were the conditions in which she thrived. She looked and felt spectacular – like a thoroughbred. The commander’s wife delicately adjusted the throttle, applying a little more power, lifting the revs to a fine whisker below the red. The roar decreased a few decibels as she eased back the throttle to a point where the pitch of the engines sounded pleasing and not laboured. They were doing a very respectable forty-eight knots.
The commander recalled that Morocco had signed up to the international convention. Their territorial waters ended twelve nautical miles from land. It was an easy calculation: fifteen minutes to freedom – then he could start to breathe a small sigh of relief.
‘Jim, what’s the position regarding the fighter planes, please? And also enquire about the weather – those clouds over the bow look like rain in the offing.’
The radio crackled; it was the control centre. ‘Are you receiving me, commander?’
‘Jim here,’ came the reply.
‘Tell the commander that you’ll shortly have company. A Mirage F1 fighter has been scrambled from Sidi Slimane Air Base some 235 nautical miles to your north-east.’
‘North-east,’ repeated the commander. ‘Yes, I have it on the chart.’
‘We’ll advise when she’s airborne: ETA from take-off is eleven minutes. Radio traffic suggests that the pilot is in no hurry – the control tower is telling him to pull his finger out, but the plane hasn’t started taxiing to the runway as yet. And an old Northrop F-5E Tiger II has been scrambled from Meknes Airbase, 225 miles north-east of where you are – ETA from take-off is thirteen minutes. We’ll advise when airborne. Radio traffic from the control tower suggests that the plane is undertaking its final checks as we speak and could be airborne shortly. To add to your problems, there’s a Floreal class frigate at Casablanca. She’s received orders to put to sea and has on board a Eurocopter Panther. She’s 140 miles away. She’ll pose no problem unless she launches her paraffin pigeon which is armed for anti-surface and submarine warfare. You’ve potentially three bandits to avoid. We’re working on a plan.’
The commander reached over and took the microphone from Jim’s hand.
‘We’re heading due west from Safi harbour. We will reach international waters in…’ He paused, looked at his watch, and then continued, ‘In thirteen minutes forty-five seconds. Please advise the submarine to make her rendezvous point fifteen miles due west of Safi harbour. Please advise her ETA.’
Back in the Operations Room the events unfolding off the Moroccan coast had ratcheted up the tension. It was unheard of for a Trident class nuclear submarine to surface in open water when there were potentially hostile aircraft around – and so close to another country’s territorial waters.
The commander surveyed the scene. He was having fun: Golden Sundancer was a joy to handle. His mind went into overdrive. He could clearly visualise in his mind’s eye where he was and where the three hostiles were going to be approaching from.
The radio crackled to life. ‘I’ve spoken to your pickup vessel; she’ll be at the rendezvous point in forty-six minutes. You asked about the weather – expect some heavy rain showers.’
The commander looked at his watch. Yes, that should give him enough time so long as neither of the fighters got their act together and took off within the next three or four minutes. It was going to be a very close call. He called across to Jim, ‘Get me Clive and the two SAS chaps here; we need a council of war. Tell Lieutenant Steiner to see how many life rafts she can find and ask her to take them to the aft deck. And get Lieutenant Gregson to see if she can find an inflatable dinghy, an outboard, and some life jackets, and to put them on the aft deck as well.’
The commander spoke into the radio. ‘Do you have any news for us?’
‘Yes, as good planning would have it, they kept back one of the Harrier jump jets that flew you and your wife to Gibraltar. She’s fully armed and took off two minutes ago. Her ETA is forty-one minutes.’
‘Thank you,’ replied the commander. The seconds were ticking by.
The longer it was before the fighters took off, the better their chances. He could pick out dark rain-laden squalls in the distance. A small smile crept across his face.
The Chancellor was in sombre mood. He was explaining to the House the consequences of the terrorist attack at Stratford and was setting out his proposals to persuade the public and industry to make the best use of energy and to encourage the diversification of the UK’s energy resources.
‘I shall be announcing a range of tax incentives to encourage the production and use of efficient and renewable energy sources, and to progress carbon sink technology to enable coal-fired power stations to move to zero emissions…’
At this point, Rafi’s attention was pulled back to the big screen and the running commentary from the command centre.
Jim had returned to the flybridge with Clive and the two SAS men.
‘Right,’ said the commander, ‘we’ve got ourselves a spot of bother. Two Moroccan fighters have been scrambled to intercept us and a frigate with a Eurocopter on board is putting to sea. In the short term it’s the two fighters that concern me.’
The commander pointed at a spot on the map. ‘The Trident submarine will reach our rendezvous point here in forty-two minutes. The Moroccan Mirage could be there in nineteen minutes and an elderly Northrop Tiger should follow a couple of minutes later. That will leave us unprotected, with nowhere to hide, for around twenty minutes. How many life rafts do we have?’
‘Two,’ came the reply from Jim.
‘Excellent, get Lieutenant Steiner to inflate them and tell her to keep them tied down! Also, find out from Lieutenant Gregson what’s happening with the search for a dinghy and an outboard.’
‘She’s found a twelve-foot inflatable with a ten horsepower outboard,’ called back Clive.
‘Perfect! Get it inflated and ready for sea – and make sure that the outboard has petrol in it,’ said the commander. He turned his attention to his charts. ‘We’ll reach international waters in five minutes. A couple of minutes later we should reach…’ he pointed to the group of black clouds over the bow, ‘That weather front, then we will launch the life rafts and I’ll change Golden Sundancer’ s course and head her north, on autopilot, towards the two fighter jets.’
Clive raised his eyebrows.
The commander turned to the four special forces men around him. ‘Here is the plan. You’ve got seven minutes from now to get the terrorists into the life rafts. Jim, you and Lieutenant Gregson will remain on board with me and my wife. The rest of you will go with the terrorists in the rafts. Once the rafts are in the water, we’ll need to put as much distance as possible between the rafts and the fighters.’ He paused. ’Let’s hope that their attention is drawn to Golden Sundancer and they don’t even think of looking for us elsewhere!’
The commander looked at Jim. ‘Have you got anything more in your bag of tricks?’
All the special service men nodded in unison.
‘Before I jump ship, could you wire up an explosive device, for which I can set the timing?’ asked the commander.
‘No problem,’ replied Clive.
‘Plus another bomb which can be detonated from the dinghy? And can you arrange for there to be a radio so that I can talk to the fighter pilots?’
‘No problem.’
‘Will one of you please disable the tracking devices in both life rafts and put a radio in each?’ ordered the commander.
‘Consider it done,’ said Jim.
‘As soon as the dinghy is fully inflated we will launch her, abandon ship and leave Golden Sundancer on autopilot heading at top speed up the coast. I’ll come back in the inflatable and meet up with the two life rafts. If we can buy ourselves ten minutes before the first fighter spots Golden Sundancer, she’ll put over eight miles between us and the fighters. Anything more is a bonus and will make it harder for them to find us.’
‘Four minutes to international waters.’ The commander’s wife called out,
The commander turned to Clive, ‘Time to get a move on.’
The four special servicemen ran down the steps to the lower deck to fetch the captives, who were bundled on to the floor of the rear deck.
‘The two Chechens, Chindriani, Hartnell, you and I,’ said Clive pointing to Colin, the nearest SAS man, ‘Will go in one raft. The sheikh, Basel, Jameel, their captain, Lieutenant Steiner and Mark, the SAS major will go in the other.’
A minute and a half after they’d entered international waters, they reached the edge of the squall. The sea around them had darkened and the wind had strengthened – the telltale signs of looming heavy rain. Moments later the downpour hit them. The commander brought the vessel to a stop.
The terrorists were manhandled quickly into one life raft, then the other and, with their guards safely on board, the rafts were cast off.
The commander pushed the throttles forward and majestically Golden Sundancer lifted her bow out of the water.
Meanwhile, Lieutenant Gregson had the inflatable fully functional and Jim had rigged up two incendiary bombs.
‘We will leave the precise timing until we know the status of the fighter planes,’ said the commander.
‘Of course, sir,’ replied Jim.
The radio crackled back into life. ‘The Northrop Tiger has completed its taxiing and is taking off as we speak. ETA thirteen minutes and counting.’
‘Right!’ shouted the commander. ‘Life jackets on. I’ll slow the boat down, let you get off, set the autopilot and come and join you.’
Jim looked at the commander. ‘Old man, you realise that falling into the “oggin” at fifty knots will feel like hitting wet concrete?’
‘Jim, get on your way and set the bomb to go off in twenty minutes. Your concern is noted,’ replied the commander.
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
‘Throw me a life jacket, and shout when you’re ready to leave ship.’
Seconds later came the call, ‘Ready to disembark.’
The commander eased the throttles back. From the flybridge he watched the three quickly and safely climb into the small inflatable dinghy and fire up the outboard engine. He picked up his small hand-held compass and tucked it into his trouser pocket, set a new course on the autopilot, pushed the throttles forward to their top setting, turned and bolted down the stairs, heading for the swimming platform.
The commander stood for a moment on the edge of the platform, watching the water churning at his feet. With a sharp intake of breath, he held his nose, knelt down and rolled slowly side first into the water. The compass in his pocket dug into his thigh as he hit the rushing water. He felt like a human skimming stone. Then there was darkness. The next thing he knew, he felt a strong pair of hands holding him as he gasped for breath. The inflatable dinghy was bobbing at his side in the pouring rain. Lieutenant Gregson and Jim, using his one good arm, grabbed him and dragged him on board. His wife put the small outboard into gear, turned the little dinghy and headed for the two life rafts.
Shaking from cold and shock, the commander fished inside his pocket and pulled out the small brass-encased compass. He opened it – it was still in one piece. He handed it to his wife and gave her the course to steer before flopping back down onto the wet floor of the dinghy.
The Ops Room and the command centre were on tenterhooks. The presence of the two Moroccan jets was going to make things very difficult and a major diplomatic row was the last thing the Government needed right now.
Colonel Gray sent a message to the House. The Chancellor was advised that he would have to speak for at least another forty minutes before the PM could reveal his hand.
The Chancellor leant forward and tapped the pile of folders in front of him, sending an acknowledgement to the Ops Room. He pulled out a red folder. ‘I now wish to tackle one of our “sacred cows”. It is a matter which has held back our economy and resulted in a disproportionate and inefficient allocation of capital away from production. At the present rate of decline, manufacturing’s share of output will soon be less than ten percent.’
The silence was broken by MPs shuffling in their seats in anticipation of what was to follow.
‘We live in a country where our home is our castle. Where we live is an integral part of our well-being. Those of us with above average salaries have the ability to occupy homes near to where we work, homes that are very comfortable to live in, but which are also very expensive. Too many of those who provide our public services and make our economy and our lives operate efficiently and harmoniously have been priced out of the market. They have been forced either to move long distances away from where they work or to live in substandard accommodation. Furthermore, the lack of appropriate accommodation near to where they work has prompted many individuals to leave their public sector jobs. Nurses, teachers, firemen, street sweepers, policemen and many, many more who work to make our lives better view owning a home as an impossibility; something they would love to afford in the right location, with the right amount of space, but that is financially out of their reach.’
The Chancellor looked up at the camera. ‘Our love affair with housing has created exorbitant house prices and a dearth of affordable housing. These two factors are two of the – if not the – key factors driving social exclusion and social deprivation.’ He paused for effect. ‘Why should we have to live in homes which have prices far exceeding their building cost? Economists maintain that it’s all to do with the immovable laws of supply and demand, but I have a different perspective; one borne out of the necessity to rectify the current inequity. The current housing market solutions for those on low salaries – namely, affordable housing, equity sharing and the like – make house ownership for the less well off a very risky business. Were these shared equity schemes a stock market product, I am sure that they’d be outlawed by the Financial Services Authority as being far, far too risky for a family’s largest investment.’
Rafi watched intently as the Chancellor paused and took a sip of water. The Chancellor still had a lot of talking to do, before the terrorists were captured, and only then could he get onto matters relating to Stratford and the economy. Rafi wondered how he would fill the time. Would his initiatives be new and innovative, or re-cast proposals which had already been announced? Rafi hoped that they would be the former. Now had to be the time for the Chancellor to be bold and housing was a good place to start…
‘I now turn to another fundamental problem with affordable housing and housing for our armed forces and their families. This housing is low cost. It provides small residential units, not family homes, and encourages poor quality buildings. Furthermore the specifications of these low cost houses are environmentally unsound. We are stacking up problems for future generations: ghettoisation and the creation of the “haves” and the “have-nots”. Our housing, when energy is a scarce resource, must be built to environmentally sound standards. The further we make our key and low paid workers commute, the less environmentally sensible it is – and the less able they are to enjoy their work and their home lives. In London, too many key workers lose over two hours a day commuting, not because they want to, but because they have to. For too many, between ten and fifteen hours a week are wasted. This is very poor use of people’s time; it spoils people’s quality of life and does not foster a contented society.’
The Chancellor moved up another gear. ‘This Government will introduce a new ownership structure: indexhold. Indexhold is an uncomplicated structure: it simply uses the tried and tested legislation for leasehold property which will form the basis of the legal relationship between the freeholder and the indexholder.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Key workers and members of the armed forces will be able to purchase homes through indexhold ownership. These will be long leasehold interests at a nominal rent. The purchase price for the indexhold interest will be the gross building cost. It is the high cost of land that has pushed up property prices and driven away key workers from city centres. Indexholds will enable people to own their home, but at a sensible price, will provide new housing that is environmentally up to standard and will rebalance the fairness of the position.’
Rafi was amazed; what a remarkable concept, so logical, and so straightforward! It would, over time, dramatically improve the lifestyle of key workers and be tremendous for the economy -there was a need for hundreds of thousands of new homes and this would provide house builders with an environmentally friendly product to champion. He listened intently as the Chancellor continued.
‘When the owner of an indexhold interest decides to move and sells their home, they will receive their initial purchase price plus a sum representing the inflationary increase. The freehold will be owned by a public body or a charity and they will have the first right of purchase on a sale. They can be expected to exercise this option to buy back the indexhold interest as the price will be significantly below that which the property could be sold for on the open market. At this point, the indexhold interest will then become available for sale to another key worker or soldier on another long lease.’
‘In practical terms, the money raised by selling indexhold interests will be used to build the right types of homes, with high environmental standards, on land owned by the state. This proposal will assist those wishing to live close to their work in our large towns and cities, but will also be extended to rural communities to enable locals who are being priced out of their villages to remain there or get back into them.’
The Chancellor let slip a small smile. ‘There will be another benefit. As there is a guaranteed blue-chip purchaser of the indexhold interest, namely the freeholder, mortgage lenders will factor this into their interest rate charges. Gone will be the days when the less wealthy are penalised for having poor credit histories, low salaries or small deposits.’
Rafi realised that he had been listening in awe, completely distracted from the events at Safi. Something good would come out of the Stratford catastrophe. The Chancellor had, in a single stroke, introduced an initiative that would, over time, improve the lives of hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of people – and free up capital which could be deployed in more productive areas of the economy.’ This was a very timely and socially astute initiative.
Rafi glanced across to the clock. It had been several minutes since the commander had jumped ship. From the dots on the screen he could see that Golden Sundancer was making an excellent turn of speed away from the dinghy and the two life rafts.
Suddenly over the radio came the voice of a Moroccan fighter pilot in heavily accented English. ‘Golden Sundancer!… Golden Sundancer!… I have you on my radar – bring your boat to a stop. I say again, bring your boat to a stop!’
In the Ops Room the Air Chief Marshal spoke to the command centre. ‘We have to keep the two Moroccan fighters interested in Golden Sundancer and looking in the wrong place for about twenty minutes. Get the Harrier pilot to engage the two fighters in conversation and to tell them that there are British nationals amongst the hostages on board – and that they should shadow the motor vessel. I repeat, we’ve got to keep them looking in the wrong place! The dinghy and life rafts won’t show up on their radar, so they will be safe until the rain clears and the planes fly directly overhead.’
The seconds passed by. The Moroccan pilot would by now have Golden Sundancer on visual. What would he do? He had been warned that there were hostages on board. At 48-50 knots she could outrun anything that the Moroccan Navy possessed. A further command was heard.
‘Stop or I will open fire!’
‘Northrop Tiger, come in Northrop Tiger,’ said the Harrier pilot. ‘Be advised that there are British Nationals on board… Do not engaged !’
In the rainswept dinghy, the commander leant across to Jim. ‘If you hear any cannon fire, please push your little red button. The pilot will think it’s all his doing.’
There was silence and then a further command to ‘Heave to’ was heard. Golden Sundancer carried on regardless. In the distance there was the distinctive sound of a short burst of gunfire. No doubt the fighter pilot had aimed across the bow.
Jim pressed the little red button. Seconds later the deep boom and shockwave of the explosion reached the dinghy. He squinted through the rain, but could see nothing.
The radio fell silent.
Back at the command centre there had been initial consternation when the pilot had opened fire and seconds later Golden Sundancer had literally disappeared from the Nimrod’s screens.
‘Oh my God!’ the intelligence officer standing beside the team leader was heard to say. He’d just arrived back on duty and had missed out on the recent shenanigans.
Over the speaker came the voice of the Northrop Tiger’s pilot. He was calling up helicopter support.
The stern voice of the Harrier pilot meanwhile was demanding to know what the hell the Northrop Tiger pilot thought he was up to.
Meanwhile the Eurocopter on board the frigate Mohammed V had taken off to investigate. The sky was going to get busy and the nuclear submarine still had to make its pickup.
‘Right,’ said the chief in the command centre to the Nimrod, ‘Where exactly is our Harrier relative to the helicopter?’
‘She’ll be there in fifteen minutes and the Eurocopter will be there two minutes later.’
‘Excellent.’
Meanwhile the Harrier’s pilot was demanding that the two Moroccan fighters keep looking for survivors until the helicopter arrived.
In the rainswept dinghy, the commander was still dazed. The swell that had hardly inconvenienced Golden Sundancer was making life uncomfortable for those in the little open-topped inflatable, which was barely making four knots. Slowly, the commander calculated that they would get back to the life rafts in twelve minutes and the submarine would surface just minutes later.
The Nimrod continued to pick up the radio traffic between the Moroccan fighter pilots and their control centre. There was consternation. The Northrop Tiger pilot was describing the size of the explosion.
Jim had placed his explosive charges next to the cool box, which housed the four thermobaric Kornet missiles, which in turn weren’t far from the main fuel tanks full of diesel vapour. The overall effect was impressive. One moment Golden Sundancer had been there, the next she’d literally disintegrated into a fireball. Her debris had vaporised. When the flames and smoke cleared there was no sign of her.
A minute later the second Moroccan jet fighter arrived to find nothing but clear ocean. The presence of the RAF Harrier fighter thirteen minutes away, bearing down on their two planes, was causing concern at the Moroccan control centre.
Rafi listened to the colonel who was talking to the RAF command centre. ‘We have the makings of a major diplomatic incident if they piece together what’s really going on under their noses. Tell the Harrier to keep talking and to get them to stay where they are…’
The contents of the Chancellor’s third coloured folder grabbed Rafi’s attention. It was as though he’d been through the Treasury’s ‘good ideas box’ and was bringing them out, one at a time.
The Chancellor started to outline a new corporate structure. ‘The not-for-profit corporation will primarily be used for public sector bodies.’ His voice was clear and authoritative.
‘The structure of a not-for-profit corporation will be similar to that of a public limited company,’ he added in a businesslike manner. ‘Just like a PLC, it will have a Memorandum and Articles of Association. The difference will be that this corporation will have custodianholders instead of shareholders. The custodianholders will have limited liability, as is the case in companies limited by guarantee. The custodianholders will have the same role as shareholders, in that they will be responsible for holding the management to account. Custodianholders will be drawn from the managers of the business, its employees, its funders, local organisations, locally elected politicians and those who receive the services. The last group, the service users, will have the largest number of votes, but no group will have a clear voting majority.’
The Chancellor seemed to be enjoying himself…
Rafi’s attention was pulled back to the action going on off the Moroccan coast. The distant Nimrod reconnaissance plane reported that the dinghy had rejoined the two life rafts. All three specks on the rain swept ocean were ready, waiting for their rendezvous. The squall was clearing and they would soon be clearly visible to a plane flying overhead. Eight miles away the radio traffic between the Harrier and the two Moroccan jet fighters had been concluded. The Moroccan pilots viewed it as job done and had turned back to their bases minutes before the Harrier arrived.
The seconds ticked by.
The Harrier arrived, over the spot where Golden Sundancer had exploded, and waited for the Moroccan helicopter to get there so that a final search could be carried out.
The helicopter, in theory, posed a grave threat to the submarine, but with the Harrier in position that threat could be neutralised.
The command centre spoke to the special service personnel on board the life rafts. ‘Activate the homing device. You have less than seven minutes to get on board the submarine.’
Jim felt under his shirt and switched on his personal homing device for ten seconds – not 200 metres away, the submarine picked up the signal.
The order went out: ‘Make surface and prepare to take on board visitors.’
The sight of the Vanguard class submarine breaking surface at speed surprised those in the dinghy. They knew she was big, but relative to the life rafts she was huge!
‘The helicopter has you on its radar and has changed course to investigate – the Harrier is shadowing,’ came the message from the Nimrod. ‘Captain, you have less than six minutes before the helicopter has you on visual.’
Rafi sensed the tension in the room. It was going to be a close-run thing.
In a flurry of activity, a squad of naval ratings descended on the two life rafts and the dinghy. The ratings and three of the special service men hauled the eight uncooperative captives out of the life rafts and manhandled them across the deck to the door at the bottom of the conning tower. They were followed by those from the inflatable dinghy. Meanwhile, Jim had slashed the buoyancy tanks of the dinghy and the life rafts and lashed them together, so that they would sink under the weight of the outboard engine.
The Nimrod was tracking the hostile helicopter and speaking to the submarine’s commanding officer. ‘You have ninety seconds before you’re in firing range. The Harrier has taken up a position above and behind the helicopter and continues to shadow her.’
As Jim hurried through the conning tower door, the command, ‘Secure hatches!’ rang out.
With seconds to spare, the submarine commenced her dive into obscurity and vanished from the radar screens.
Meanwhile, the Harrier and the helicopter pilots were in conversation.
‘The possible vessel has disappeared,’ advised the Harrier pilot. ‘I suggest we call it a day.’
‘We give it, say, ten minutes and we return to base? Yes?’
‘Affirmative,’ came the Harrier pilot’s reply.
Over the speaker Rafi heard, ‘All eight terrorists and all eight service personnel safely picked up. Diving and going into silent mode. Will speak later; ETA Devonport in forty-eight hours.’
‘Bravo Zulu, out.’ A cheer went up. A sense of relief filled the air. The submarine was heading back to Plymouth with its cargo safely on board.
The Chancellor was still going strong. He had been going through the contents of the orange folder in front of him and was explaining how the Government proposed to improve the transparency of corporate ownership, and how it was going to remove the tax deductibility of losses and associated costs incurred by those speculating on naked options. Rafi didn’t catch precisely what he was explaining, but from the attentive nature of the faces around him he was still having the impact of a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. His audience was enthralled.
Meanwhile in Luxembourg, as soon as Golden Sundancer had reached international waters, Giles gave the signal to the local police team. The gendarmerie was waiting outside Maryam’s offices. Her arrest had been authorised by the Chief of the Luxembourg police. The evidence he had been shown was overwhelming and, off the record, he had agreed that a trial in London with the other three terrorists would be the simplest solution. Neither spoke of extradition. A British SWAT team, including a couple of SAS operatives, was standing by.
When the knock at the door came, Maryam was found entertaining a group of EU politicians in her boardroom. Their lunch had stretched right through the afternoon. For her part, she was celebrating.
Maryam, with the support of her influential guests, put up an impressive verbal fight, protesting her innocence. Things nearly turned ugly when she summoned her two bodyguards, however, the local gendarmes were prepared for resistance and the bodyguards were quickly outnumbered and overpowered.
In the commotion Maryam was bundled out of the room by two SAS men, down the service lift into a waiting car and transported to the nearby airport. At the same time, a substitute with a coat draped over her head was taken away to the local gendarmerie to keep up the pretence. Nineteen minutes after the main group of terrorists were safely on board the submarine, Maryam was in custody aboard a private jet taking off for the UK.
At that moment, Colonel Turner gave the order for a message to be passed to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, who was still speaking at the dispatch box.
There was shuffling behind the Chancellor as he was handed a small folded slip of paper. He finished what he was saying, paused and then opened out the sheet so he could read the message. He read it twice. All eyes in the Chamber were on him. The silence was deafening.
‘Mr Speaker, I have been informed of a development; one which this House should be made aware. If the Speaker will permit, I believe that the Prime Minister should communicate this important news.’ The Speaker nodded.
Rafi grinned as he thought about the Chancellor’s stalling for time and the excellent initiatives he had produced.
The PM was passed the message, he read it, stood up and moved to the dispatch box. He hesitated, a ripple of uncertainty spread around the Chamber. ‘Thank you, Mr Speaker, I have some breaking news. I can inform the House that we have just received information regarding the terrorists who committed the recent atrocities.’ He straightened his shoulders and stood upright. The PM looked calm and confident. No doubt under the surface he was jumping for joy, but he was a master of his trade. ‘I can inform this House that special forces units have in the past few minutes successfully apprehended nine terrorists. They have captured the four leaders of the terrorist cell, the two mercenaries who wrought the carnage on Stratford and Cruden Bay, a recruiter of the Bishopsgate bomber and two accomplices.’
The PM paused to let the House take in the implications of what he had just said. ‘Furthermore, I am able to report that the two mercenaries involved in the attacks on Hartlepool and Heysham are safely out of action, as are the three who attacked Aldermaston. I am advised by the intelligence services that we now have in custody the leading players who conspired against us and wrought such terrible damage and grief on our country.’
There was a brief silence as the news sank in. Then, en masse, the MPs sitting behind the PM rose to their feet and started clapping and waving their order papers. Applause and cheers from the other side of the House soon followed.
Rafi watched as the Speaker let the House enjoy the moment before calling, ‘Order, order; pray let the Prime Minster continue.’
‘Whilst the terrorists were at large, I can reveal that we have been waging a war of deception against them. The terrorist attacks on Aldermaston, Heysham and Hartlepool were in fact foiled and what you witnessed on television were the army’s pyrotechnic skills being put to use. Attacks on the St Fergus, Bacton and Easington gas facilities were also foiled, as was an attack on the nuclear reprocessing plant at Sellafield. Sadly, these seven successes were overshadowed by the tragic events at Cruden Bay and Stratford. The catastrophic damage suffered at Stratford greatly saddens me. Memories of this attack will haunt me, forever.’
He paused to let the words of his last sentence sink in. ‘As we face up to the enormous losses incurred at Stratford, it is impossible to contemplate what the position might have been had the terrorists succeeded with all their planned attacks. Suffice it to say that we would have lost over fifty percent of our electricity and gas supplies and would be facing horrendous radioactive contamination in five locations.’
The PM looked up at the camera. ‘We owe a debt of gratitude to the commander-in-chief of our armed forces and his colleagues, who in the early hours of Friday morning responded to our intelligence sources and set in motion a vast damage limitation strategy. Operation Counterpane was set up to counter the anticipated attacks. It was the commander-in-chief’s foresightedness that enabled help to be at Stratford within minutes of the disaster occurring. We owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Royal Netherlands Air Force whose unreserved assistance was outstanding. And the Government’s thanks go to all those who ably and promptly came to our aid, in our time of need.’
Applause rippled around the Chamber.
‘The terrorists’ plotting was uncovered last week by the City of London police, during their investigations into the Bishopsgate bombing. The police and MI5 were helped to a significant degree by a tenacious individual whom they had wrongly arrested in conjunction with the Bishopsgate bombing. There are very many people to whom I would like to pay tribute. Their resolve helped stop the majority of the terrorist attacks, and their unstinting work following the Stratford disaster has been far beyond the call of duty. They know who they are. They did their jobs not to gain from being in the spotlight and to spin their story, but because it was in their very nature to fight against those who sought to bring this country to its knees. Their identities will be revealed in due course, but for the time being, let them relax in the knowledge that what they have done has been exceptional.’
The Chamber reverberated to loud cheers from all sides.
‘The past few days have been doubly difficult. We have been on the trail of the terrorists, but have feared that they might be tipped off that we were on to them, only to disappear from our radar screens and then go on to commit a series of horrendous attacks about which we had no intelligence. The terrorists used their huge wealth to build a network of clandestine informants and to extend their influence far wider than we could hitherto have anticipated. They took advantage of the opaque intricacies of our corporate system and our lax border controls to manipulate and steer events to their own end. The extent of their plotting will be revealed over the next few days.
‘It is with humility, regret and deep sadness that I have to report to the House that my Government has been tarnished by this episode. The terrorists used a significant number of people to assist them. I am advised by the police and MI5 that the terrorists had in place a significant number of influential sleepers or moles, who in return for excessive remuneration became their eyes and ears. The identity of these sleepers has caused the intelligence services and me grave concern.’
Gasps echoed around the Chamber.
‘For example, MI5 identified two members of COBRA who were on the terrorists’ payroll, which is why an Operations Room was set up at the City of London police headquarters in Wood Street. The scale and magnitude of the recent attacks has made me realise how vulnerable we are to those with immense wealth, who take it upon themselves to either attack our society or use their money to influence those around them. Our freedoms, love of material things, and the chasm between the vastly wealthy and the rest of us have made too many people easy and obliging targets. It is with great sadness that I have to report that a large number of people in senior positions took huge sums of money for nominal amounts of work and did not seek to question what was going on – they were in reality working for the terrorists. They should have guessed it was too good to be true. Furthermore, in their greed, many were all too happy to receive this money in secret accounts offshore. Little did they appreciate that they were being groomed, and that they formed part of the terrorists’ information network.’
Rafi watched as the PM was forced to pause as the House reverberated with retorts of: ‘Shame, shame!’ The noise grew to a crescendo, as the displeasure was voiced in no uncertain terms.
‘Silence, silence!’ boomed the Speaker of the House.
The PM continued. ‘MI5, working with the City of London police force, have identified over 300 well-connected individuals who were on the terrorists’ payroll, directly or indirectly.’
More gasps were clearly audible.
The PM paused and looked around the House. ‘It is with sadness and displeasure that I have to report to the House that six members sitting in this Chamber succumbed to the terrorists’ financial advances and thus became part of their network.’
A shocked silence gave way to calls for justice to be done. It took the Speaker a full four minutes to suppress the noise before the Prime Minister was able to be heard again.
‘I should remind everyone that under British Law a person is innocent until proved guilty. Sergeant-at-Arms, are you and your colleagues ready?’ enquired the Prime Minister.
‘Yes, sir!’ came the clear reply.
‘Are you in possession of the list of the Members’ names, for whom arrest warrants have been issued by the City of London police in connection with aiding and abetting the terrorists’ attacks at Stratford and other locations around the UK last Friday?’
‘Yes, sir!’
‘With the Speaker’s permission, I would ask you, please, to proceed.’
The PM sat down while the sergeant-at-arms – the head of Parliament’s police force – walked over and passed the arrest warrants to the Speaker, who looked at the papers and then solemnly asked her to proceed.
The Members’ names were slowly read out one by one. They were not in alphabetical order, which only added to the dramatic tension. The six included a newly appointed junior minister and a backbench MP from the Government’s party, an MP from each of the two main opposition parties and two MPs from the smaller parties. Protests of innocence rang out around the Chamber. Shock and incredulity spread around the House, as Members who had hitherto been seen as whiter than white had their names called out. Only one MP put up a real struggle, whereas the others left with whatever dignity they could muster.
The Prime Minister watched as the door closed behind the last to be escorted out. The hubbub and mutterings gradually subsided. ‘If the Speaker will permit, it would be helpful if the Chancellor of the Exchequer could now complete his outline of the Government’s financial proposals, before he and I put ourselves before the House to answer questions.’
‘Agreed. Pray continue.’
Rafi was on tenterhooks. How much of their advice would the Chancellor take on board? He looked at the faces of the opposition MPs on the TV screen. There was a look of bewilderment.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said the Chancellor. ‘I have outlined a number of initiatives to enhance economic activity. I will now turn to our proposals of how the Government is to deal with the huge costs associated with the Stratford disaster.’ He paused and then went on, ‘As Members are no doubt aware, the credit crunch and the various state bail outs have necessitated significant Government guarantees and a substantial increase in borrowings. We shall not be undertaking any further borrowings. Indeed, as things stand it would not be possible to do so without, risking the UK’s credit rating, and triggering steep rises in interest rates and gilt yields. This would be very counterproductive.’
There was utter disbelief on the faces of those opposite him.
‘So how then can we meet these new and very large financial liabilities?’ The Chancellor paused whilst those in the Chamber were left to imagine the starkness of the position. ‘I am pleased to report that we have a plan. Under this plan the costs associated with the disaster will be met via the issue of shares in new Government Real Estate Investment Trusts – REITs. The value of the public sector’s property and tangible assets is around?900 billion, or thereabouts. A proportion of these assets will be transferred into these Government REIT vehicles, which will be listed on the London Stock Exchange. We will compensate each and every person who lost their health, their home, their possessions or their business as a result of the terrorist attacks by transferring to them shares in the Government REITs. A cash alternative will be provided by a consortium of banks who will offer a cost-effective trading facility.’
‘The sums involved will be large – in addition to the compensation costs there are a number of other significant costs, such as the decontamination and decommissioning costs of our nuclear power stations and the payment of guarantees… At present, the best estimate I have for Stratford and the associated costs is?195 billion. A full breakdown will be published by the Treasury in the next twenty-four hours.’
There were gasps around the Chamber – the figure was far larger than anyone had expected. The House fell silent once more and the Chancellor continued. ‘I also propose to use part of the proceeds of the REIT share sales to repurchase long dated gilts,’ continued the Chancellor.
Strike one for the terrorists, Rafi thought. This would underpin gilts prices and be the first nail in their financial coffin.
‘The Treasury’s best estimate is that the cost of the dividends on the Government REIT shares sold to third parties will be no more than ?1.5 billion for the next fiscal year, rising to?3 billion in the following year, and will therefore be well within its scope to manage, without recourse to rises in national taxation.’ He paused momentarily and looked at the shadow chancellor opposite him.
Strike two: the Government funding requirements would remain on track. The second nail in the terrorists’ financial coffin has been hammered home, thought Rafi.
‘I shall also be introducing proposals which will allow pensioners and those planning for their retirement to invest in London listed REITs as an alternative to annuities. This will provide the REITs market with liquidity. Furthermore, I am advised by leading actuaries that the yield advantage of REITs over gilts and their inflation hedging characteristics will reduce the deficits of many pension funds.’ The Chancellor let those around him take in what he had said about Government REITs. He now had to move on to a particularly difficult area.
‘Our economy,’ the Chancellor continued, ‘our financial service industries, the City of London and our currency were badly bruised by the recent banking crisis and will be further injured by the nuclear disaster. To rebuild them we need a period of currency and interest rate stability. It is well known that the five criteria for our entry to the Euro have been long debated; this debate has been against the background of a strong currency and a positive economic outlook for the UK. Some eminent economists have argued that Stratford has materially changed the risk-reward relationship. They have advised me that the risks to our well-being, and to our economy, of being in the Euro are now significantly less than if we were to go it alone and keep Sterling.’
‘Wait for it…’ thought Rafi.
‘I have considered their arguments and have concluded that Sterling is part of our heritage, our identity, and our economic independence, and it should only be given up in extremis. So, in how desperate a position do we find ourselves? We have found a workable solution to meet all the costs associated with Stratford and this will inject billions of pounds into our economy. And we will make a start at reducing the scale of unfunded public sector pensions, which will improve the Government’s finances. The introduction of not-for-profit corporations will make our public sector services more efficient and will reduce the need for future tax increases.’
The Chancellor stopped and looked around the Chamber. People were on the edge of their seats. Back in the Ops Room Rafi suddenly wasn’t sure what to expect.
‘On the other hand, I have had to consider how much damage speculators might cause if they try to decimate our currency. Therefore, whether or not we join the Euro rests on whether or not we can hold our currency stable.’
The tension was palpable.
‘So, are we, or are we not going into the Euro?’ wondered Rafi.
‘Early yesterday, senior representatives of the Bank of England flew out to meet with the largest international Central Banks to ask for their help in supporting our currency and to determine the level at which support would be forthcoming. Without this support we would find ourselves in exceptionally difficult times and joining the Euro would become a necessity. The results of these deliberations should be available to me now.’
There was movement behind the Chancellor. He turned round and was passed a large white envelope by the PM. He opened the envelope, pulled out two sheets of paper and read them. His face gave nothing away, but before he spoke, he pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow.
‘As of ten minutes ago, the Federal Reserve of America, the European Central Bank, the Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Saudi, UAE, and four other Central Banks have all agreed to support and be aggressive purchasers of Sterling, until such time as the UK economy has recovered from the recent catastrophe.’
Sighs of relief were heard around the Chamber.
‘The support level has been set at a figure four percent below Sterling’s trade weighted exchange rate as at close of business on Thursday evening.’
The Treasury had taken Aidan’s brief and added their own magic – Sterling was to remain independent! They had done a superb job. Rafi looked at the ceiling, let out a small whistle and smiled. Strike three! Sterling was to be protected. The third and final nail had been hammered home. The terrorists’ positions in the derivatives markets had become untenable and they would be sitting on truly massive losses when the market reopened in the morning!
A weary, but relieved-looking Chancellor surveyed the packed House of Commons. ‘Details supporting the initiatives I have set out this afternoon to the House will be published as soon as is practical – the printing presses are running as I speak. The events of the past few days have required much soul-searching and reprioritising.’ He paused and looked across at the shadow chancellor. I commend these proposals to the House.’ He sat down to growing applause from the House, which was taking its time to assimilate all he had put before them.
The Prime Minister rose to take his place at the dispatch box. ‘If the Speaker will permit me, I should like to tidy up a few loose ends. The reshuffle I spoke of earlier will be far-reaching. I have scheduled meetings with the leaders of the main opposition parties for later this evening. I will be speaking with many of you over the next twenty-four hours. I have received assurances from the party leaders sitting opposite me that they will place the interests of the country first.’
The PM paused for dramatic effect. ‘Where spin rules, reason is wanting, honesty is wanting, public service is wanting and the role of this House is overshadowed. Spin and self-aggrandisement are unacceptable. We owe it to the people of this country to consign spin and subterfuge to the past.’ The PM paused and looked across at the opposition benches.
‘It can be expected that members of competing parties will find themselves working together running the Ministries of State. Undoubtedly, there will be differences of opinion over some issues, but this should not stop efficient Cabinet Government. This House, its committees and the Upper Chamber will have the important role of scrutinising, improving and approving the proposals put before them. The Government has many difficult decisions to make in order to steer our country forward in an appropriate direction. What I am proposing is a move away from presidential-style politics to one where the Government is, as it was decades ago, fully accountable to Parliament. Our collective aim must be to get things back on to an even keel, to rejuvenate our economy and to rebuild our damaged international reputation. I commend these proposals to the House.’
With that the PM sat down to applause from all corners of the Chamber. He looked exhausted.
The Speaker called for the Leader of Her Majesty’s Opposition. Silence returned to the Chamber as he stood up and raised aloft a pile of papers.
‘I thought I’d been well-briefed by my team when I came to the House this afternoon.’ Slowly and theatrically he lowered the pile of papers, turned and placed them where he had been sitting. ‘I won’t need them.’ He looked across at the Government benches. ‘If my sources are correct, the Prime Minister has personally been working non-stop for the past three days as part of the effort to prevent the terrorists’ attacks, for which I thank the Honourable Member. I shall be meeting with him later today and again tomorrow. Following these meetings, I shall report back to this House any concerns I might have. In the meantime there is much to digest and, in the circumstances, it would be churlish of me to find fault for the very sake of finding fault. The two Honourable Members opposite me have, with great openness, sought to provide leadership and the wherewithal to enable our country to extricate itself from the horrendous tragedy of Stratford.’ He cast his eyes upwards towards the television camera.
‘I should like to pay my respects to all those who have lost and those who will lose their lives as a result of this nuclear catastrophe, and to thank all those in the emergency services, the armed forces and the intelligence services who have helped in our hour of need. I’d like to express my sympathy to all those who lost their homes or businesses in the “Isle of Stratford”, and to thank all those people and companies who helped selflessly.’
With that, the leader of the official opposition party sat down. The eyes in the House, as if following a tennis ball at Wimbledon, moved along the front row and focused on the leader of the third political party. It was his turn. He had a reputation for holding strong environmental views and a nuclear disaster was something he had warned against over many years. Would he use the events of last Friday to put the knife in? So far, the Home Secretary, a couple of lower ranking ministers and a number of quango employees involved in the nuclear industry had resigned. Would he try to make this a resigning matter for the Prime Minister as well? He stood up and looked around the silent Chamber.
‘It is on the record that my party places huge importance on environmental issues and has a profound distrust of matters nuclear.’
The House sensed that things were going to get interesting.
‘The Stratford nuclear disaster will haunt us for generations to come and its occurrence is political dynamite. Its consequences will be felt by every individual in this country. A lesser Government might have tried to spin its way out of the quagmire. Instead, this Government has come here today with a rational, inclusive and cohesive plan, which I believe will provide the foundations for this country to prosper again and will bring environmental and sustainability issues to the centre of our culture.’
‘I look forward to meeting with the Prime Minister later today and again tomorrow morning. I shall come back to the House and report more fully on these discussions and will raise such questions that I believe require answering.’ He paused and in a sombre tone added, ‘I, too, wish to pay my respects to all those who have suffered and to convey my great thanks to all those who have helped in this time of crisis.’ He looked around the House and sat down.
One of the colonel’s team was beckoning Rafi to pick up the phone nearest to him.
It was Aidan. ‘What do you think?’ he enquired.
‘That’s unfair,’ an ecstatic Rafi replied, ‘you’re the one with the screens in front of you.’
‘The currency markets are seeing big support for Sterling. Several early punters bet on it going through the floor and have had their fingers burnt. The support since the Chancellor’s statement has been unprecedented. And, Rafi, the terrorists and their banks will be sitting on some mind-bogglingly large losses when the derivatives markets open tomorrow! Did the PM and the Chancellor perform some kind of miracle, or what?’
‘Better than I could have prayed for,’ Rafi replied.
‘Basically, things are looking marvellous! Must dash – see you around Rafi. Bye.’
Rafi called across to anyone within earshot, ‘Aidan says that the markets loved the PM’s and the Chancellor’s speeches. And that the terrorists and their bankers are being taken to the cleaners.’
Colonels Gray and Turner and their teams looked ready to drop. But they looked happy as they packed up their kit – the military operation was complete. The Wood Street Ops Room had served its purpose well.
Len Thunhurst and his team were jubilant. It was their turn now as the focus swung onto the arrest of those implicated with the terrorist activities.
A spreadsheet visible on a large screen showed the tally of the arrests. The table showing the names in red, blue and black – slowly at first, then more rapidly – turned yellow as the arrests continued.
Rafi looked up at the TV screen. A well-known political commentator was attempting to sum up the activities of the afternoon. The words unprecedented, remarkable and incomparable were used frequently in his report. He finished by saying that it had been a great day for British democracy.
Rafi looked back across the room. The large screen showed Operation Dry Clean to be progressing well. The number of arrests was continuing to rise swiftly.