Kate pulled out some stapled sheets of paper from the small bundle in front of her and passed one to each of the individuals around the table.
‘In front of you are the names of individuals we and MI5 can place within the terrorists’ web of companies. To put it bluntly, all these individuals are on the terrorists’ payroll – whether they know it or not. You will note that there is an executive officer of a metropolitan authority on that list, which falls within the London disaster planning area. On page four is a list of the organisations which the terrorists have infiltrated through their huge outsourcing business and the limited liability partnerships they run. The list includes: the Ministry of Defence, GCHQ, Paddington Green police station, the Home Office…’
‘Thank you,’ cut in the PM.
‘Your list is very impressive, but can it be verified?’ asked the Defence Secretary.
‘The names come from Companies House and have been given the once-over by MI5.’
‘Let us be clear. You are suggesting…’ The PM looked at the sheet, ‘That a special adviser to me at Number 10, whom I was with not four hours ago, is on their payroll, as are two individuals who provide support to COBRA. Is that correct?’
Kate looked straight at the PM and said simply, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘The problem is that we have identified two potential moles in COBRA, but we can’t be one hundred per cent sure that we haven’t missed a third,’ said Ewan.
The PM looked at the head of MI5. ‘This is very disturbing; why didn’t I know about this sooner?’
‘Unfortunately, Sir, we have only just uncovered them. They’re “sleepers”, put in place to carry out one or more specific activities. Up to that point, they are in effect invisible. I have seen the documentation relating to one of the limited liability partnerships controlled by the terrorists, on which an MP sits as a non-executive. He gets paid?40,000 per annum for attending just four half-day meetings a year. The going rate for an individual with little business experience would be less than onetenth of what he’s being paid. The fact that this MP sits on a couple of sensitive committees is what concerns us at MI5. Following our investigations into the activities of Maryam Vynckt, we believe that a number of those on the list have received large payments offshore, via Gulf Trade Bank. The problem is that the offshore payments are very hard to trace unless you know exactly where to look,’ Ewan paused. ‘Therefore, for now, it is difficult to confirm that the list is complete.’
The Defence Secretary looked agitated, but kept quiet.
‘So, it’s a matter of timing?’ asked the PM. ‘Whilst the terrorists have their Kornet missiles and remain at large, you believe COBRA should not be activated?’
‘Precisely, sir.’
The Prime Minister looked thoughtful. Rafi sensed he didn’t agree.
‘Thank you,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘that answers my first question. My second question is: how certain are we that the terrorists have Kornet missiles?’
Kate flicked through her bundle of papers, pulled out copies of the digitally enhanced photos of the two wooden boxes strapped into the inflatable dinghy and passed them around the table.
‘The photos were taken under an hour ago. The boats involved are owned by the terrorists… And the markings on the boxes match those stolen from the Russians.’
‘Thank you. Now for question number three. Could you please tell me why you are so confident that the four Chechen mercenaries have two targets each?’
‘A combination of things, Prime Minister. First, we have confirmation that they took delivery of five Kornet missile launchers and twenty missiles, four of which we know have been fired. This leaves them with sixteen missiles. The photos we have just received indicate that a launcher and probably four missiles are now on board Golden Sundancer. This leaves the four Chechen terrorists with a launcher and three missiles each. We have been talking to the army; the launcher, its tripod and the missiles would be too cumbersome for one man to move around quickly. We therefore believe that the Kornet launcher will be used to fire three missiles and then left behind. Each terrorist will then move on to where they have hidden a Vektor mortar and will use it to attack their second target. Our Estonian friends have confirmed that the terrorists have taken delivery of four such mortars with eighty high-explosive shells.’
Kate paused to let what she had just said sink in, and was about to carry on when the Defence Secretary enquired, ‘Could they not use the mortars first?’
‘Yes, that is entirely possible. But the advice from the SAS is that as the Kornet missiles inflict much more damage, they would be used first,’ replied Kate.
The Defence Secretary nodded and she continued. ‘If we consider the types of targets close to the terrorists’ vacant properties and their weapons – they correspond. The Kornet missiles will be used on the substantially built targets – the nuclear power stations – and the Vektor mortars will attack lighterweight targets – the oil and gas facilities.’
‘OK. Question number four: when and where do you believe that the terrorist attacks will come?’
‘Our educated guess is that the attacks will be tomorrow between 7.30 and 8.00 a.m. – from first light to when the Stock Exchange opens. This will maximise the news coverage and the adverse impact on the markets. This theory is supported by the information we have from the local harbour masters, who have informed us that the trawlers are all due to slip their berths tomorrow between late morning and early afternoon.’
Kate passed across more sheets of paper detailing where they believed the attacks would take place.
The PM looked around at his colleagues, who were deep in thought. ‘Any questions or shall I carry on?’ After a short pause, he moved on to his fifth question. ‘Why do you want us to let the terrorists escape and make them believe that they’ve successfully hit their targets?’
Kate looked behind her at John and Jeremy. Neither showed any desire to tackle this question so she carried on.
‘We want to arrest the four main ringleaders: Sheikh Tufayl, Basel Talal, Jameel Furud and Maryam Vynckt and any other people who have been helping them,’ expressed Kate. She paused momentarily to collect her thoughts.
‘Perhaps I could answer this question Prime Minister?’ said Ewan. ‘Our intelligence unit tells me that the main ringleaders and the escaping terrorists will meet up. We believe that their destination is Morocco. Jameel is there and confirmation has come through that the sheikh’s private jet has filed a flight plan to Marrakech airport. It’s scheduled to land at 12.45 p.m. on Monday. We believe the terrorists will leave Britain on the trawlers and rendezvous with their fast motor vessel, Golden Sundancer, which will then sail to Morocco.’
‘What are the extradition procedures like from Morocco?’ asked the Defence Secretary.
‘They are a diplomatically friendly country. And we have successfully extradited the?50m Securitas robber from there.’ Ewan paused. ‘However, the procedure is long-winded and the evidence has to be watertight and well documented. Put bluntly, time wouldn’t be on our side. Sheikh Tufayl, a Muslim, is very wealthy and very well-connected. He has the ability to slip the net if he winds up in the hands of the Moroccan authorities.’
‘How important do we think these people are?’ asked the PM.
‘Very,’ replied Ewan. ‘We’re dealing with international players who are in the vanguard of financing terrorist activities. Their bank accounts are in both neutral countries and some less than neutral. Deals struck in the financial and derivatives markets can easily be done via intermediaries – something like the Banco de “we launder your money for a fee”. The turnover in the derivative markets is vast. Tracking down such transactions would take time and the profits made would rapidly become untraceable. We believe that we need positive proof of the ringleaders’ involvement and can’t afford to let them slip away to fight another day. Capturing them in flagrante delicto would make it far simpler to freeze their assets and then have them confiscated. If they think that they’ve been successful, they and their accomplices will be less likely to go to ground.’
Ewan looked at the PM. ‘In addition, there would be a feelgood factor from the news coverage following their capture. However, our priority is to scupper their plans and then apprehend them.’
Kate spoke up. ‘The four Chechens are dangerous killers. If they were cornered in a public place, it could get very messy and the collateral damage could be large. If we follow them, we can pick them up well away from innocent bystanders. I should make it very clear that we would only wish them to be allowed to escape to the trawlers if and only if their Kornet and Vektor weapons are out of action.’
The PM thought carefully about what she had just said. ‘My last question is: could you please explain your fears relating to the financial markets?’
Rafi glanced at Kate and Aidan. They nodded at him. ‘Could I answer that one, please, Prime Minister?’
‘Yes, go ahead.’
Rafi thought for a moment about where it would be best to start and eventually decided to start at the beginning, with the description of their three PhD theses. ‘John and Jeremy discussed the ringleaders’ academic work with a senior lecturer who was a contemporary of theirs – he described their dissertations as being incisive and of exemplary standard. However, to quote him: If one puts them together, they are the instruction kit for building a financial atomic bomb.’
The PM shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
‘Sheikh Tufayl is conservatively worth $10 billion,’ continued Rafi. ‘Jameel Furud, through his control of Prima Terra, has around ?30 billion of funds under his management; Maryam has, we estimate, a similar sum under her control. While Talal, in contrast, has used the sheikh’s money to build up the terrorist infrastructure. They have billions at their disposal, and intend to use it to wreck the Government’s finances.’ He stopped for a moment, letting the point sink home. ‘The terrorist activities should be viewed in the context of the continuing uneasiness in investor sentiment. Their ultimate aim is to trigger another stock market crash, which will enable them to make massive profits from their positions in the derivative markets.’
Rafi stopped and looked around the table to check that the guests had taken on board what he’d been saying. ‘Aidan has been doing excellent work on the scale of their intervention into these derivative markets.’ He leant forward and looked past Kate at Aidan.
‘Prime Minister; in a nutshell, if they achieve their ambition they’ll saddle the derivatives markets with losses in the region of ?50-100 billion,’ added Aidan. ‘I have identified a sufficient number of contracts to confirm the scale of the numbers involved.’
The Prime Minister looked at Rafi and then at Aidan. ‘Well, there is a simple answer: we close down the market and unwind the positions in the derivative contracts.’
Rafi looked at the PM. ‘Might I enlarge, please?’ he enquired politely.
‘Yes,’ came the slightly clipped reply.
‘Also the terrorists have identified a number of areas where Government guarantees exist. Their aim is to bring billions of pounds of debts and liabilities back on to the Government’s balance sheet. For example, by attacking nuclear power stations – there will be colossal clean-up costs, plus the likelihood of large accelerated decommissioning costs. Then there will big costs to stop the outsourced public sector services, that they control, from collapsing. Against the backdrop of a stock market crash, this would put the weakened Government finances into a perilous position,’ concluded Rafi.
‘This all seems rather far-fetched if you ask me,’ commented the Defence Secretary. ‘My view is that the greedy bastards want to make a financial killing, nothing more nothing less. Let’s stop the trading in the contracts that Aidan has identified and get on with catching them.’
The PM looked at Aidan and Rafi. ‘Do you believe that the Government’s finances are in peril?’
‘Yes, sir. These terrorists aren’t just financially astute and used to dealing with huge sums of money; they are also exceedingly devious and clever. They are determined to inflict as much damage as possible. It is as if they have declared war on our economy.’
Rafi sensed that the Defence Secretary disagreed. ‘In the short time available to us, we’ve looked at the two most obvious derivatives contracts and can confirm that they have built up big positions. I strongly believe that they will have also been trading in Frankfurt and Chicago. It would be nigh on impossible to unwind the myriad of positions they, and possibly their associates, have amassed.’
‘This is bloody preposterous!’ burst out the Defence Secretary. ‘This is all too much. You’re exaggerating – trying to play things up for your own self-importance! Have none of this Prime Minister – get on and stop the terrorist attacks. We can let the Treasury and the Bank of England sort out the financial problems next week, as and when they occur.’
Meanwhile, Aidan was doing an excellent impression of a boiler building up a head of steam: his ears had gone red and his eyes had narrowed. He was close to telling the Defence Secretary exactly what he thought of him.
‘Do you have a solution?’ asked the Prime Minister.
‘We believe that we do, sir,’ replied Rafi. ‘All we ask is that the authorities don’t procrastinate. We’re drawing up a detailed report for the Chancellor of the Exchequer and the Board of the Bank of England as to how these financial problems can be contained. We would like to put these proposals in front of them as soon as we know how bad, or otherwise, things are going to be. In light of the impending attacks it’s our suggestion that the London financial markets do not open tomorrow. This will give us…’
‘That is exactly what I suggested!’ burst out the Defence Secretary.
‘Not quite,’ Aidan added quietly. ‘Your suggestion was to unwind the terrorists’ derivatives positions; ours is to close the markets for a day to give us time to counter their financial attacks. What we have to avoid is procrastination; if the markets pass the point of no return, I’m absolutely certain that financial Armageddon will become an unstoppable reality.’
The Prime Minister looked perturbed.
The Air Chief Marshal spoke. ‘Prime Minister, might I make a suggestion? I hear what our friends here have been saying. As I see it, they are experts in their field and we’re not. If what they say is correct, it could have damaging consequences that far outweigh the physical damage that the terrorists might inflict. Without a prosperous economy and a fully operational banking sector our democracy would be undermined. Let us focus on stopping the terrorists – their missile and suicide bomber attacks – but at the same time run with Mr Khan and Mr Gilchrist’s assertions and get the experts and the top decision makers at the Treasury and the Bank to consider their grave predictions, as soon as practical.’
The PM nodded. ‘Thank you, Sir Nigel; that makes good sense.’
The commissioner cast his eyes in Rafi’s direction. ‘You had something else to say, I believe?’
‘Not more pessimism!’ exclaimed the Defence Secretary in an irritated tone.
Rafi smiled. ‘No sir, actually some good news for once. If we can stop the markets from falling and hold long interest rates where they are until, say, the middle of next week, the terrorists’ positions in the derivative markets will become untenable. Their margin calls will become larger and larger, and they will be financially wiped out. This will eliminate several billion pounds from their coffers, damage many of the shadier banks and set back the terrorist cause by months if not years.’
He stopped and glanced at the PM. ‘Sir, we have a plan.’ He paused, ‘Government real estate investment trusts could be created, thus providing the Government with a source of finance that will enable it to meet these impending financial obligations as and when they arise. It will remove the need to tap the gilts markets, and will help the Government refinance its increased borrowings resulting from the bail out of the UK banking system.’
‘Why didn’t you say that sooner?’ interjected the tetchy Defence Secretary.
The Prime Minister smiled. ‘So there’s a silver lining – as long as we take on board your solution and you get it right.’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
‘Right, back to matters at hand,’ said the PM. ‘The outstanding question that we need to answer is: do the terrorists have a contingency plan “B” in place? And if so, how much damage might a Kornet missile inflict? I’d be very interested to hear your views, Air Chief Marshal.’
‘The damage could be extensive. If MI5 are confident that they know where the terrorists are going to attack in all but one of the locations, why give them a second chance by activating COBRA?’
‘Ewan?’
‘From MI5’s standpoint we can’t believe our good fortune in finding where the attacks are likely to come from. Why risk tipping the terrorists off?’
‘Defence Secretary?’
‘We’ve everything in place to run such an operation from COBRA. And how certain are we that these properties will be used by the terrorists? I believe that the two moles in COBRA should be apprehended so that we can get COBRA up and running, using the advantages that its set up will give us. I’d be willing to take the seemingly minute risk that there isn’t a third mole… However, I will fall into line if everyone else believes COBRA isn’t the right way forward at this point in time.’
‘Commissioner, what are your views on COBRA?’
‘The consequences of the terrorists swapping to a plan “B” are, in my opinion, too great a risk to contemplate whilst they and the four Kornet missile launchers are at large. Perhaps, sir, you might like to take a look at the emergency operations room we’ve set up downstairs before you make up your mind?’
The PM turned to Ewan. ‘Please arrest the two COBRA suspects without tipping off the terrorists, and see if you can discover how they were going to make contact.’
‘Yes, sir. We have them under surveillance.’
The PM looked at Kate and her team.
‘We owe you a great debt of gratitude for all your work and insight into the terrorists’ activities, and thank you for placing our troubles into context. Mr Khan, thank you for your tenacity. And my thanks to the rest of you.’
Kate took that as the invitation to leave. She and her team filed out of the room.
They didn’t have to wait long. Jeremy received a call on his mobile. ‘Well, I’m damned.’ He listened a little longer and then said, ‘Thank you.’
Jeremy looked across at John. ‘My colleagues have interviewed one of the COBRA suspects. He gave them the phone number he was to ring and the phrase he was to use each time COBRA was activated. They traced the landline number as the ex-directory number of a special press adviser. However, the call was to be redirected through to the voicemail box of a mobile phone. And – would you bloody well believe it? – the mobile is currently located on the outskirts of Aldermaston, 200 metres away from where the suicide bombers are holed up in the horsebox. It’s a bit of luck; we had assumed that they were all together.’
Kate and Rafi settled down and went through their paperwork to see if they had missed anything that could lead them to the missing target. Hours later they had still found nothing.
Rafi felt exhausted. He turned to Kate. ‘I need sleep.’
‘How about I tuck you in?’ she asked with a mischievous smile.
‘Not tonight, thank you,’ he replied. ‘Could you wake me at 4 a.m. please – or earlier, if I’m needed?’
‘Will do,’ promised Kate. Rafi walked down the back stairs to the cells, grabbed a blanket and pillow and lay down on his bed. His mind started to clear. He got up, knelt down and for the first time in over a week said his prayers. Then he got into bed, and within moments, he was out for the count.
Just before 4 a.m., Rafi was woken by Jeremy. He was groggy and struggled to get his brain back into gear. Strong black coffee was waiting for him upstairs.
‘Hey, you still look rough,’ said Kate cheerily as Rafi walked in. ‘You’ve chosen a good time to join us. Things are hotting up in the Ops Room. It’s like a game of chess. If you come down the corridor with me, I’ll bring you up to speed.’
Kate started putting Rafi in the picture. ‘Emma, John and Aidan’s team are catching up on some sleep down in the cells. The duty sergeant has never known the cells so full of sober people. The ’s mood has improved; it seems first impressions were deceiving – in fact he’s rather good at his job.’ She paused. ‘As you’ll see, the Air Chief Marshal has brought in a specialist anti-terrorism expert and a couple of senior officers to act as coordinators.’
Rafi tentatively entered the Ops Room. It was buzzing. Kate and he stood out of the way to one side. The video-conference screen to his left was linked up with the SAS command centre. The Air Chief Marshal, Brigadier Harold Sparkman and Colonel Paul Gray were discussing the first operation – the capture of the two suicide bombers and Kaleem Shah at Aldermaston. The colonel gave instructions and two teams, red and blue, were deployed. The plan was to overwhelm the suicide bombers and the journalist at precisely the same moment.
The two suicide bombers were not expected to be much of a problem. They were not professional soldiers, but they did have two large bombs in their horsebox. Speed and the element of surprise were going to be critical.
The SAS commander reported that the two bombers were, to all intents and purposes, tucked up in the living quarters of the horsebox and appeared to be sleeping fitfully.
Kaleem Shah was a different matter. He had had many years’ experience of working in war zones. He was undoubtedly a cautious and capable soldier. The fact that he’d opted to sleep a couple of hundred metres away from the two terrorists suggested that he was expecting the unexpected.
The infrared sensors had identified the journalist as lying quietly across the back seat of the Jeep. The vehicle was positioned such that it had a line of sight through to the horsebox and a second 4x4, but was largely screened by twiggy vegetation and small saplings.
It was all quiet in and around the large Jeep and the horsebox. The two SAS teams silently approached the vehicles and waited for their orders.
Rafi watched, totally caught up in the proceedings. Unlike watching TV, this was real. He felt his heart pounding.
Just then Colonel Gray gave the command for the two assaults. There was a momentary delay and then, from a video link, there was the sound of two muffled explosions. The speaker crackled as it picked up the voice of the red team leader who was commanding a team of three against the journalist and his Jeep. ‘We’ve secured the vehicle and have captured the journalist. He didn’t put up a struggle. We found two booby traps outside the vehicle. Nothing too sophisticated, but nasty enough to take off a leg.’
The blue team simultaneously descended on the horsebox, found nothing untoward protecting it and seized the two suicide bombers, dragging them from their sleeping bags out into the open.
At that moment a loud bang echoed around the room. The horsebox erupted into a fireball.
‘Shit! The bastard had a radio-controlled device up his sleeve,’ was heard from the speaker.
‘Blue team! Come in blue team!’ There was silence.
Two further loud explosions were heard as the terrorists’ explosives went up.
The Air Chief Marshal looked at the colonel. ‘Not a good start Paul, is it?’
The silence was followed by a muffled voice across the video link.
‘Jesus, that was close,’ said a shaky voice. ‘Two of us are singed, but otherwise fine; two have suffered minor injuries from flying debris, but my corporal has an eighteen-inch piece of aluminium sticking out of his thigh. And the two suicide bombers are in a bad way – one has a piece of shrapnel in his chest. They had no protective clothing on and both are badly burnt.’
‘Get the three terrorists out of there and into protective custody. As far as everyone is concerned, the suicide bombers are dead, got that?’ ordered Colonel Gray.
‘Yes, sir.’
The journalist had attached a small radio-controlled explosive device to the fuel tank of the horsebox, which had ignited around 100 litres of diesel.
Colonel Gray gave the order, ‘Initiate phase two.’ The dull thud of an explosion in the distance was audible. The video screen showed a section of Aldermaston’s outer fence with a gaping hole and a nearby building on fire, billowing black smoke.
‘Not bad, eh?’ remarked Jeremy, who had materialised from nowhere and was standing next to Rafi. ‘Gives the impression to the other terrorists that they were successful, doesn’t it?’
‘Good work,’ added the Air Chief Marshal.
The SAS command centre came online. ‘Some plans and a spare timer for a detonator were found in Kaleem Shah’s vehicle. The plans mark two buildings that were to be attacked. Both contain low-level radioactive materials; nothing really dangerous, but sufficient to close the plant if released. Odd though, the timer had been tampered with. Whatever the setting, it would have gone off after about five seconds. Also the blue team leader reports that the explosives were packed into rucksacks, just like at Bishopsgate.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Colonel Gray.
The commissioner was thoughtful. ‘Well, that explains why the bomber at Bishopsgate got caught in the blast. He thought that he would have far more time to get away than he actually did. A five-second stroll from the bomb’s location to where his body was found fits in with the time delay on the fuse – so he wasn’t a suicide bomber, just a servant set up by his masters!’
‘Interesting,’ mused Ewan. ‘Ergo, the bombers at Aldermaston were expecting to escape!’ He went quiet for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, he spoke out loud. ‘I wonder if this attack has anything to do with the Iranians and the UK Trident nuclear weapons programme…? If the terrorists were in bed with Iran, it would give them a safe place to go after the attacks… And this sort of attack could appeal to a number of the extremist Iranian politicians. A tit-for-tat attack… I wonder?’
‘Ewan, no!’ The Air Chief Marshal looked concerned. ‘Don’t even go there!’
Ewan shrugged his shoulders. ‘Old habits… Just trying to put two and two together…’
The Air Chief Marshal spoke over him. ‘Now for phase three; the news and the TV crews are all yours, Harold.’
Brigadier Harold Sparkman, who was standing nearby, nodded and phoned a member of the Ministry’s press team, who was in bed asleep. ‘I’ve arranged a press conference for you at 7 a.m. near to the Aldermaston explosion. When you’re dressed and have had a quick cup of coffee, I’ll brief you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Colonel Gray, meanwhile, was giving orders to the SAS red and blue team leaders. ‘Arrange for the vehicles to be removed and the area cleaned. Can you please confirm the terrorists are safely with MI5 operatives?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
‘Good. Now how serious are the injuries your team sustained, blue leader?’
‘Relatively minor, sir. Corporal Evans looks a bit like a hedgehog, but he can be patched up! And corporal Winderson suffered concussion when he struck his head in the explosion, but he’s got a thick skull – give him a few hours and he’ll be right as rain.’
‘Thank you, blue leader. All fit members of your unit are to join the red team. A helicopter is on its way.’
Rafi looked at the clock on the wall; everything had happened so quickly. It was only 4.20 a.m., Friday morning.
The brigadier turned to the Air Chief Marshal. ‘Press briefing arranged, sir. Our boys on the ground have been told to keep the buildings smoking as you ordered, sir.’
Shortly after the Ops Room had become operational, the PM, the Defence Secretary, the Air Chief Marshal, Colonel Paul Gray and Ewan Thorn had gone into a conclave. It was a meeting each of them would remember for years to come. On the table in front of them was a list showing the sum total of all the special forces, marines, paratroopers and army units with urban warfare experience – plus the crack anti-terrorist personnel – that were available. The country’s defences were stretched to breaking point. The conflicts overseas and tight budgets had left a gaping hole in the numbers available. Their terrorist adversaries were highly trained and experienced in the deadly art of urban warfare and concealment. A decision had to be made – they agreed that quality rather than quantity had to be the order of the day.
The PM pondered quietly to himself as he listened to the discussion over the allocation of their scarce recourses. He, too, now appreciated just how overstretched they were. Resources were being allocated according to the perceived size of the latent hazard – priority was given to protecting the nuclear installations, leaving the defence of the gas and oil plants bordering on thread-bare.
The considered view was that the terrorists would not make their move in the dead of night. And the command centre did not want them to be tipped off by reconnaissance teams being spotted; accordingly, only cursory inspections of the properties and the surrounding areas had been done.
‘No sign of any of the four terrorists,’ came over the speaker. ‘We will wait until all our special forces, marines and paratrooper teams are in position.’
‘I hope to God we’ve got this right,’ the Air Chief Marshal murmured anxiously under his breath.
‘It’s now time to see whether the terrorists are where we think they should be,’ called out the Air Chief Marshal.
Rafi felt a wave of apprehension flow through him. If he was wrong about the properties and they drew a blank… The butterflies in his stomach turned into a dull ache. He looked at the screens in the Ops Room; they were focused on the nuclear installations. The twilight pictures, from the infrared cameras, gave a distant feel as to what was happening.
The Air Chief Marshal addressed his team. ‘Brigadier Sparkman, as discussed, you will coordinate the SAS and the Paras at Hartlepool, Hull and Easington.’
Then he turned to Colonel Turner and enquired, ‘Is all in place at the Peterhead properties, St Fergus and Cruden Bay?’
‘Yes, sir.’
His next question was addressed to Colonel Gray. ‘All ready to go at North Walsham, Bacton, Grays and Sizewell?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ewan, is all in place at Troon, Peterhead and Great Yarmouth docks?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That leaves me with Sellafield, Prestwick and Heysham.’ The Air Chief Marshal spoke via his headset to his SAS contact, glanced across to the video-conferencing screen which linked their Ops Room with the SAS command centre and then at the screen next to it, which showed the paratroopers’ command centre.
‘Gentlemen, are we ready to go in five minutes?’ Affirmative replies came in.
The die is cast, thought Rafi. He touched Kate’s shoulder.
She was standing in front of him, gazing at the screens. She turned; her face was white with tiredness. ‘This is it,’ she said apprehensively. ‘We’ll soon find out if our hunches were right or if we’ve got it completely wrong!’
‘Hunches… I hope they’re a lot more than that!’
‘Your confidence is most refreshing,’ said Kate. Rafi found his hand next to hers; he gave it an affectionate squeeze. She took half a step backwards and let her body rest against his. She kept hold of his hand as she watched the three screens intently and listened to all that was going on.
The waiting was nail-biting. There were, Rafi estimated, twenty teams of special forces, paratroopers and anti-terrorist personnel out there in the darkness, stalking their prey. Behind them provisions had been made for their support. The scope of the mobilisation made it one of the largest peacetime operations on record.
Rafi held his breath.
Then the five minutes were up.
‘Go, go, go!’ came over the speakers. The troops swung into action.
On the screens Rafi could see the shadowy terrain over which the soldiers were navigating. Greg’s makeshift Ops Room was working well.
At Heysham, a squad of paratroopers were supporting a team of three SAS soldiers. The building had been under observation for the previous five hours. There was no sign of movement and no telltale infrared heat signatures to show where the terrorist was. It was a tall property, to one side of the industrial estate. It was being refurbished and sections were covered in tarpaulins. At the back of the flat roof there was a new scaffolding tower. The SAS soldiers inched forward, carefully checking for booby traps. Eventually the first soldier reached the bottom of the scaffolding tower. He gave a thumbs up sign and pointed to the top of the tower.
His signals were relayed back to the command centre, which briefed the Ops Room. It was then that Rafi heard, ‘Infrared shows the target to be lying on the scaffolding boards under the tarpaulins. He’s going to be seriously difficult to get at without giving our presence away.’
There was a flurry of movement in a number of the small frames on the screens as the units’ progress was fed back to the Ops Room.
The brigadier called out, ‘Terrorist located at the Hartlepool property. He’s under camouflage netting in the gully of the roof. He has a clear line of sight across to the nuclear power plant. The team on the ground is working out how best to tackle him.’
Rafi felt his hand being gently squeezed, as if to say, ‘We weren’t wrong!’
‘No sign of the terrorists at Cruden Bay, St Fergus or Peterhead,’ shouted Colonel Bill Turner.
‘No sign of the missiles or of terrorists at North Walsham, Bacton, Sizewell and Grays,’ added Colonel Gray, abruptly. ‘Wait! A Vektor mortar and twenty shells have just been found on a motorbike parked at the back of the industrial building at North Walsham.’
Colonel Bill Turner spoke. ‘An unattended utility van just over a mile from St Fergus has been investigated and a mortar with twenty shells has been recovered. No sign of the terrorist and nothing to report at Cruden Bay.’
The Air Chief Marshal called out, ‘They’ve located a mortar and twenty shells in the panniers of a BMW motorbike parked in an old container on the building site at Gosforth, near Sellafield.’
This was quickly followed by the brigadier. ‘A mortar and twenty shells have been uncovered at the Hull property.’
Rafi’s pulse was racing. He did a quick calculation: all four Vektor mortars had been recovered, two terrorists and their Kornet missile launchers were still unaccounted for… they were getting there. The smile on his face evaporated, as he realised that it was too soon to be complacent. If just one missile hit a nuclear target then it could be game over.
Rafi listened to the Air Chief Marshal being briefed. The SAS soldiers at Heysham couldn’t get at the terrorist on top of the scaffolding without alerting him to their presence. After a short conference, a decision was taken and a message went back. ‘Take him out. At all costs stop him firing a Kornet missile.’
The SAS assaulter at Heysham waited unmoving in the darkness. He had advised command that he couldn’t guarantee to immobilise the terrorist with his compact 9 mm sub-machine gun. The SAS snipers behind him also had no clear shot.
He waited for his orders and then moved forward silently. The scaffolding tower had four main legs. He approached the furthest pair, reached into one of the pockets of his assault vest and pulled out a couple of small packages – the special services own blend of plastic explosive – which were spot on for cutting structural supports. Without a sound, he expertly set the charges, then moved back to the other pair of legs and repeated the process. He heard a person moving above him. His pulse rate stayed steady. The terrorist had no line of sight to him and the SAS soldier knew that he’d been as stealthy as a summer breeze; silently, he backtracked around the corner of the building.
He gave the signal that he was clear of the detonation zone and waited for the order from command. When it came, he pressed the miniature magneto in his hand and felt the shock waves of the four explosions ripple through his body. Each of the tower’s legs was now missing a section. The tower remained motionless for a moment and then gravity took hold. The scaffolding wall ties had no chance of holding the load. The tower arced outwards from the building and crashed into the ground. The terrorist, who had been under the tarpaulin on the top, spilled out and did a dead cat bounce on the nearby grass. Three darkly clothed SAS men descended on him and stripped him of his weaponry. The Kornet missile launcher and three missiles lay on the ground close to him.
‘Beware of any remote controlled devices,’ barked the commanding SAS soldier.
In the Ops Room the capture of the Kornet launcher, its three missiles and the terrorist was greeted with cheers. The terrorist was still alive, but unconscious and looked to be in a bad state.
Suddenly, flames and dense billowing smoke erupted near to the Heysham nuclear power plant.
‘Oh, no!’ thought Rafi. Then he remembered it was the army at work, giving the impression that the terrorist attack had been successful.
Kate was still leaning against Rafi. She felt a release of pentup anxiety. She turned her head and looked into his eyes.
‘Your instincts were spot on. You’re a star.’
He felt the warmth of her body. ‘More like good teamwork,’ he replied, holding her gaze with a big grin.
Meanwhile, the brigadier had received confirmation that the terrorist at Hartlepool had a clear view of the nuclear power station. ‘Can he be safely taken out?’ he asked his opposite number in the command centre.
‘Yes, sir. a SAS sniper has outflanked him and has him in his sights.’
‘Do it. Just don’t risk him firing a missile.’
‘Yes, sir!’
A few moments later, confirmation came over the speaker. ‘Terrorist taken out.’
This was followed by the noise of a massive explosion at Hartlepool. The brigadier turned to Colonel Gray. ‘Crikey! The sappers have been busy – I wonder what they’ve found to blow up?’
Rafi watched the flames darting high into the air, followed by thick smoke engulfing the area around the nuclear power station. He looked across the screens. The army’s pyrotechnic skills were being shown off to great effect at Aldermaston, and now at Hartlepool and Heysham.
Daylight would reveal damage to a non-nuclear building at Aldermaston, a smoking zinc factory next to Hartlepool nuclear power station, and fire and smoke coming from the abandoned visitor centre on the perimeter of the nuclear compound at Heysham.
Rafi and Kate were on tenterhooks. Two terrorists with Kornets were still out there. The good news was that at least one of the likely targets – the oil pumping station at Cruden Bay -wasn’t nuclear, but what on earth was the other target?
‘Nothing to report on the three trawlers,’ called out Ewan.
There was a lull in the proceedings. Time ticked by slowly; the two missing terrorists were conspicuous by their absence.
Rafi and Kate hurried back to their office. They looked again through their paperwork, but still couldn’t find any clues as to where the missing location might be.
Rafi was worried. Had he let the side down and missed some-thing obvious which could have pointed them to the missing target? The very possibility haunted him.
The Air Chief Marshal took the PM, the Defence Secretary and the head of MI5 to one side. ‘I would like your permission to mobilise the entire military. We’ve passed the point of no return. I should have asked for this hours earlier. Unfortunately, at the time I was preoccupied with coordinating the limited resources we had available.’ He looked at the PM. ‘Sir, we have to have a cast-iron insurance policy in place should one of these damn missiles get through to something nuclear. Our ability to deal with a nuclear incident isn’t what it should be. We have two terrorists with Kornet missile launchers on the loose. Who knows if they now suspect that we’re on to them? We must prepare for the worst eventuality: a nuclear disaster.’
The PM agreed and, on his authority, at 4.45 a.m. all armed services’ leave was rescinded. All personnel, including part-time territorial soldiers, all available medical and support Corps, were called to their barracks and put in a state of readiness. Every hospital with an Accident amp; Emergency Department within 100 miles of a nuclear plant was told to be fully staffed up by 6 a.m. The Home Secretary was contacted and advised to catch the first flight back to London. His ETA in Downing Street was 9.30 a.m.
Every barrack and hospital was told that this was a surprise training exercise, sanctioned by the Prime Minister to test their readiness to respond to a national emergency. The message went out to senior officers that the new Prime Minister wanted to use the exercise as a way of seeing where the problems might be and whether they had the right resources available.
Those in command were left in no doubt that they should prepare for a sizeable disaster or conflict.
The Air Chief Marshal turned to Brigadier Harold Sparkman and Colonel Bill Turner who were standing close by. ‘There are contingency plans in place for attacks on nuclear installations. What I want from the two of you is a plan – we’ll call it Operation Counterpane – which will deal with a serious radioactive leak, contaminating, say, ten to twenty square miles of a densely populated urban area. On your agenda there need to be robust provisions on how to get a nuclear leak covered from the air, arrangements for an exclusion zone with a guarded perimeter, decontamination and triage units, medical facilities, an evacuation and rehousing plan, and a system to monitor the identities of all those displaced. Basically, take what is already there and make it work – big time.’
He was looking perturbed. ‘Probably best if you include Len Thunhurst, commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, in your plans. Giles here has brought him up to speed with all our problems and he’s aware of the need for secrecy.’ He paused, ‘The transportation front is what really concerns me. We are short of a couple of squadrons of heavy helicopters. Without them, logistical support in an urban disaster area will be a nightmare. There will be blocked roads and restricted access at a time when speed will be paramount. The number of operational workhorse helicopters in the UK is far below what we’ll need.’
Then the beginnings of a smile appeared on the Air Chief Marshal’s face. ‘I think I’ll have a quiet chat with a close friend of mine who runs the Royal Netherlands Air Force. Colonel Turner, you are a logistics expert, please liaise with Ewan and get him to draw up a list of the whereabouts of all private helicopter fleets around the UK. Tell the operators that all helicopters capable of carrying four or more people are subject to a requisition order for the next twenty-four hours. Their helicopters should be fully fuelled, with pilots on immediate standby and ready to join a UK task force by 06.00 hours at the latest. They will be held on call for the rest of the day. Full compensation will be paid if requested. Inconvenienced clients should only be advised that their helicopter is on loan for a rescue operation.’
As of 5.35 a.m. the Royal Netherlands Air Force’s base at Gilze-Rijen, fifty kilometres west of Eindhoven, was on full standby and over half of the Dutch military helicopter fleet had been offered to assist the Royal Air Force.
The Air Chief Marshal breathed a sigh of relief on hearing the news – the Royal Netherlands Air Force had one of the most modern fleets in Europe and its helicopters were only an hour away from the east coast of England. Twenty-nine helicopters – Chinooks, Eurocopters and Apache Combat helicopters – were on standby and a direct link had been established with their operations room. This, in one stroke, had more than doubled the number of military helicopters available. He walked over to the PM. ‘Sir the deployment of the military is likely to lay bare the level of overstretch.’
The PM nodded. ‘Yes, overseas conflicts have tied up too many resources. I believe I’ve missed a very obvious threat to our well-being – countering large scale terrorist attacks on our own soil… Without guaranteed access to energy, we face an uncertain and potentially bleak future.’
‘Air Chief Marshal.’ The PM looked carefully at him. ‘When this is over, I want you to draw together a team of experts so that you can provide the Cabinet with a briefing paper on how we should shape the armed forces so that they’re fit-for-purpose in terms of protecting our country’s interests at home.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I have no wish for us to become a police state, but the prospect of a small, but well-funded terrorist cell attacking the heart of our energy supplies is a great concern.’
Back in the office, Rafi was still racking his brains about the two missing locations. He was willing to put good money on one of them being the crude oil pumping station at Cruden Bay – its location and its importance to the economy put it right at the top. Then for the other there was Sizewell nuclear power station or Grays liquid natural gas storage depot, but the special forces had still found nothing at either.
Kate and he had been exploring whether the location could be linked to the terrorists’ fish processing business and a possible new cold store in the London area. They had checked to see if the terrorists’ property company had used any specific firm of lawyers. Unfortunately, they used a different firm for each transaction. They had spoken again to Land Registry, but drawn a blank.
Neil had arranged a special visit to the terrorists’ property company’s offices an hour earlier, but they were empty. It transpired that they were being moved from London to Manchester. All their computers and files were in transit and MI5 were not surprised to find that they were unable to trace the removals firm.
As a last resort, the commissioner had decided there was nothing for it but to pull in PREH’s directors. There were four of them. Basel Talal was at large in the North Atlantic on board Golden Sundancer and the other three, it transpired from one of the director’s wives, were on a corporate bonding week with their staff in the Caribbean. The tour company advised that they had chartered a crewed yacht. No one in the marina from which they had sailed knew where they were heading. Their ship-to-shore radio was switched off, as were their mobile phones.
The yacht had left the marina twenty-four hours earlier with the wind a comfortable force three, gusting four. The US Coast Guard advised that with an average speed of eight knots the yacht could be anywhere within a couple of hundred mile radius, equivalent to an area of around 100,000 square miles. Neil had spoken to his opposite number at the US Homeland Security. Four US navy helicopters and all available coastal patrol vessels were dispatched to reconnoitre the possible area. They would try the captain’s usual haunts first but, given the scale of the area to be covered, they didn’t have high hopes of finding the yacht.
Meanwhile, Kate had rung Rick in Manchester. Wesson was asleep. Rick described the man as unhinged, with a persecution complex. He was still being totally uncooperative.
John had tracked down the flight of Roger Harewood, the immigration officer, and had eventually got through to the captain of the 747 and to Roger.
‘Er… Good morning, or is it evening? To what do I owe the pleasure?’ said a somewhat surprised and dazed Roger.
John explained about the fish processing business and the need to find their new cold store in London.
Roger sounded very apologetic. ‘I seem to recall making a jotting or two. It’s hard to keep track of people entering through the immigration fast track process. Unfortunately, I can’t recall any details. We’re asked to process hundreds of people.’
‘Steve said that information in your notebooks might help us,’ said John.
‘Yes; I’ve a drawer full of cheap notebooks in which I make miscellaneous notes. As soon as we land I’ll go straight to the office and try to find my scribbles on their fish processing business. I hope I didn’t throw them away. All I can remember is that the location was somewhere in London. At the moment, I can’t recall anything more. We aren’t encouraged to muddy the waters. My scribbles aren’t welcomed on the files. Just a habit I suppose.’
‘A good one,’ said John. ‘We’ll arrange to have you picked up from the plane and taken to your office when you land. Will your wife and family be OK?’
‘Yes, no problem there; Felicity is well-organised.’
‘If you should remember anything in the meantime, do please let us know. When you get to the office, if for any reason you can not get through on the phone, please fax us with anything you have. The fax comes through to the middle of our office. Steve has put the numbers on your desk. Safe journey.’
John asked to speak to the captain.
‘How can I be of assistance?’
‘Mr Harewood is going to be helping us with important enquiries when he gets back to Manchester. He seems to have unwittingly uncovered a piece of information that might help us solve a serious crime. We could do with him being as alert as possible when he lands. Could you…?’
The pilot didn’t need to hear the rest of the sentence. ‘I’ll arrange for him and his family to be moved to first class for the remainder of the flight.’
‘Thank you. When you land, I will arrange for Mr Harewood to be collected from the boarding gate. Could you ask the control tower to give you landing priority, or should I?’
‘No problem, I can do that.’
‘This is hush-hush so another excuse would be appreciated. Thanks for your help,’ said John.
John thought for a moment, picked up the phone and spoke to Phil Scott, Rick Feldon’s assistant. ‘Apologies for waking you. I could do with a favour, please. I need to get a Roger Harewood from Manchester Airport to his office in Sheffield, when his plane lands just after 9 o’clock this morning. Time will be of the essence.’
‘It’s forty miles and at that time of the morning the traffic will be awful. I’ve got an idea. Can I ring you back?’ asked Phil.
‘No problem.’
A few minutes later, Phil came on the phone. ‘I’ve pulled some strings and booked the police helicopter. It will be waiting at Manchester airport, and I’ve arranged for an airport security car to take Roger from the plane across to it.’
‘Perfect, thanks very much,’ said John.
It was now a matter of waiting. Rafi looked at Kate. It was obvious that neither of them was optimistic.
‘What else can we do? How about we get the large scale London maps out again and see if we’ve missed anything?’
Kate gave Rafi a concerned look. ‘I don’t know how you do it. You’ve suffered more stress in the last week than most people deal with in their whole lives and you still keep going with a smile on your face. I’m absolutely shattered.’
He looked at Kate and saw a different, softer side to her.
‘It’s the company I keep, and an overwhelming desire to stop the terrorists,’ he replied.
Kate smiled at him. ‘You think the company is tolerable?’
‘Yes,’ he smiled, ‘When you walked into the interview room at Paddington Green, I doubt if you knew how close I was to folding. I shall be in your debt for…’ Rafi paused, trying to think how best to express his feelings.
But, before he could finish his sentence, Kate cut in. ‘It was David who said I should back you. For my part, I’d have left you to the wolves. But I’m glad that my first instincts proved to be so wrong.’
In the Ops Room the planning of Operation Counterpane continued at a feverish pace.
Time had slipped by – dawn would soon be breaking.
‘They are professionals, hardened in the tactics of guerrilla warfare,’ said Colonel Gray to his team. ‘If they’re half as good as the Russian Security Service say, we can expect them to be invisible right up to the last moment.’
At Cruden Bay in North Scotland, the expectation was for an attack shortly after daybreak. The SAS and paratroopers were waiting, but there was still no sign of the terrorist. However, the indications were that a terrorist had been in the vicinity. An outbuilding behind the vacant industrial unit in Peterhead had been occupied the previous day. Someone had been sloppy. Numerous fresh cigarette ends were found on the floor. In themselves they were nothing out of the ordinary, but in the circumstances they were like manna from heaven. In the FSB files was a miscellaneous comment on Sergy Kowshaya – he was a chain-smoker.
The brigadier’s two adjutants were having an increasingly frenetic time coordinating the Ministry of Defence’s press team and the release of information to the news desks.
The message they were trying to put across was: ‘Yes, there have been three terrorist attacks, but this is a matter for the armed forces and the police, not the politicians. The attacks have been partially successful. Thankfully, no nuclear material has been released. Security has been stepped up at all UK nuclear installations. Another attack couldn’t be ruled out. Nothing is being taken for granted and the military has been called in to provide a defensive ring around key installations. This is what the armed forces are trained for and the public should remain calm.’
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to those around him in the Ops Room and those on the video links. ‘Daylight will bring with it the real danger as the terrorists will be able to see their targets more clearly and the news cameras will capture any scenes of destruction. Be prepared for anything to happen. We have two highly dangerous terrorists out there. We have to find them and stop them.’
It was cold at Cruden Bay. A swirling sea mist lapped around the bulbous twin tanks of the oil pumping station, cloaking them in a soft, white blanket. The outline of the buildings was barely visible, making an accurate attack by a terrorist difficult.
Suddenly there was activity. A suspicious movement had been detected one and a half kilometres from the perimeter of the oil pumping station. From nowhere, there was the feint infrared image of an individual kneeling on the ground out in the open, with a missile launcher at his side. The enhanced pictures showed that in the blink of an eye the terrorist had the launcher up on its tripod and was ready to fire at the pumping station. It was clear he knew exactly what he was doing. The nearest SAS soldier was 500 metres to the terrorist’s left but, unfortunately, his line of sight was partially obscured by a small undulation in the terrain.
It was too late – there was a whooshing sound and seconds later one of the two oil storage tanks erupted into a fireball that lit up the grassland for miles around. The explosion was followed by a series of smaller explosions. It was like a gargantuan Chinese firecracker going off. Dense, grey smoke engulfed the whole facility.
The soldier broke cover and moved rapidly to a point where he could clearly see the terrorist in the distance. On the run, he opened fire. The terrorist seemed unfazed by the bullets whistling around him and fired a second missile into the thick pall of smoke. Another explosion was heard, but this time it lacked the cataclysmic intensity of the first. The dark, clawing smoke belched up into the sky. Anyone downwind was going to have an unpleasant time.
The terrorist’s position looked increasingly hopeless; three SAS soldiers with their automatic fire had him pinned down in his foxhole. Suddenly the ground around the terrorist started belching out thick white smoke, creating a smokescreen which rapidly obscured him from the view of the SAS – he was well prepared.
Then, from within the blanket of white smoke, the engine of a powerful motorbike could be heard – it had been stowed under a nearby camouflage net. The terrorist had abandoned the missile launcher and was making a quick getaway.
He appeared at speed from his protective smokescreen, handling the bike with skill. He slipped unharmed through the security force’s net and now had an unhindered run to Peterhead and then towards the St Fergus gas terminal. He had foreseen that the security would be tight given the location, but was surprised by the speed of the response.
The team in the Ops Room were briefed on the events: the oil pumping facility had been extensively damaged.
Rafi recalled Emma’s earlier comment: ‘It’s not size that matters, but the throughput of the pumping station. Cruden Bay is where the Forties Pipeline System has its landfall. It can pump over one million barrels of oil a day from the offshore oil fields to the inland processing terminal at Kinneil. Without Cruden Bay the lion’s share of the UK’s daily crude oil supplies would stop.’
The Air Chief Marshal called out. ‘Four of the five Kornet missile launchers and all four Vektor mortars are accounted for. There has been major structural damage at Cruden Bay, but thankfully there are no civilian casualties or injuries. The sappers are doing a great job at Heysham, Aldermaston and Hartlepool. To those not in the know, it’s been a seriously awful night. It’s as if World War III has broken out in our back yard. We know better.’ He paused. ‘As a matter of utmost priority we have got to find the missing Chechen terrorist or at least his Kornet missile launcher…’
The commissioner, who had been watching quietly, leant across and spoke to the Prime Minister and the Air Chief Marshal, ‘I think it’s time for me to advise the London financial markets not to open.’ He picked up the phone and spoke first to his contact at the Stock Exchange, and then to Euronext. liffe. Two minutes later, both exchanges had posted on their dealing screens that they would not be opening due to terrorist threats. Then, as an afterthought, he picked up the phone and spoke to the heads of the derivatives exchanges in Frankfurt and Chicago. To his relief they both agreed to postpone the opening of their exchanges.
It was 6.45 a.m. at Sizewell – the grey February dawn was still forty minutes away; the cutting east wind was blowing over the coastal marshland and was forecast to veer around and come from the south-east. Dick Newton and his co-driver, Ted Dyer, had received notice the day before from their controller that their run to the marshalling yard at Willesden Junction in north London had been brought forward by two and a half hours and that the train would be going straight through to Sellafield.
The heightened anxiety of terrorist threats over the past year had resulted in Dick and Ted’s timetable being subject to frequent changes. Gone were the days of a regular schedule. But that did not seem to worry them, as they were well looked after. This morning, however, was a first. Never before had they been on the move in darkness and never before had they gone further than Willesden.
In the February early morning air Dick and Ted undertook their final inspection of the two carriages transporting the spent nuclear fuel casks. The radioactivity coming from the sweating casks was within the guidelines. Dick radioed through to control confirming that the freight train was ready to depart at its allotted time.
They had been operating the Sizewell to Willesden Junction run for several years and it had become a regular feature of both their lives. They knew the routine like clockwork and the safety procedures as prescribed by their employers had become second nature.
Back in the warmth of the train’s cab, Dick handed his empty coffee mug to Ted and waited for the last few minutes to tick by before their departure time. At 6.50 a.m. precisely, Dick reported in to his controller, released the brake and the train moved effortlessly out of the sidings. The train made light work of its two fifty-tonne reinforced canisters and gathered speed – on the old rails and wooden sleepers – down the branch line from Leiston to Saxmundham.
A few years earlier an early morning start would not have been possible. The 45 mph speed limit imposed on the nuclear freight trains meant that peak rush hours had to be avoided as they caused too much congestion for the commuter trains. Behind the scenes, the speed limit had unofficially been raised to 60 mph. The result was that if Dick and Ted timed their slot correctly when they joined the mainline at Ipswich and went behind the Norwich to London express, they would cause hardly any disruption to the passenger train schedules. In any event, the reliability of the early morning commuter trains was far from good and it was not unusual for their journey to be delayed by one of the many problems encountered by the long-suffering commuters.
There was no real hurry to get to Saxmundham, where they joined the Lowestoft-Ipswich line. They were scheduled to go after the small diesel passenger train which was timetabled to stop at Saxmundham at 7.31 a.m. But, as this morning it was running a few minutes late, Dick brought his train to a gentle stop outside Saxmundham station and they waited for the passenger train to come and go. It was 7.38 a.m. when the nuclear freight train passed through Saxmundham. They were four minutes behind schedule, but in the scale of things this was well within the bounds of normality.
Over the years Dick had become used to Ted’s running commentary of the places they passed and his interpretation of what they were. The descriptions rarely changed. It helped the time slip by. There was the alpaca farm and then the small market town of Woodbridge, nestling on the banks of the river Deben, a favourite of Ted’s. He would recall how the Viking burial ship at Sutton Hoo on the other side of the river was worth a visit. Then it was on to Ipswich to wait for their slot behind the Norwich to London express train. The intercity train was on time. Dick eased his train through Ipswich station and the tunnel beyond. After that, it was a straight run down to Stratford on the north-eastern outskirts of London. There, they would leave the main line for the North London line which would take them around London, past Willesden Junction and on to the north-west line towards Sellafield.
When their speed limit had been 45 mph, the seventy miles from Ipswich to Stratford had taken two and a half hours, with a couple of stops to let passenger trains past. At 60 mph, the journey would be almost an hour faster and they would need only one stop to let an intercity commuter train through.
By 8 o’clock, the early morning news channels had wall-to-wall coverage of the four terrorist attacks. The infernos and the tall columns of acrid black smoke filled the TV screens in the Ops Room.
A drawn and tired looking PM spoke to those around him. ‘Thank you for all your unstinting efforts. We can be grateful that we have suffered no casualties and that the nuclear facilities are one hundred per cent intact. However, we still have one terrorist and one Kornet missile launcher unaccounted for. As we don’t know where he is or what his target is, I have spoken to the Permanent Secretary for Intelligence Security and Resilience and the director of Civil Contingencies.’
He paused and looked across at his Defence Secretary. ‘COBRA will be in session as of 9 a.m. I have told them to have experts on CBRN – chemical biological radiological nuclear – in attendance. And to have all members of ACPO (TAM) – Association of Chief Police Officers (Terrorism and Allied Matters) – available via video-conference links. The Defence Secretary and I will be leaving shortly to brief COBRA.’
The Prime Minister turned to the chief of the armed forces. ‘Sir Nigel, I shall leave this Ops Room in your command. Your remit is to take out the fourth terrorist and disable his missile launcher. And please keep all the fleeing terrorists under close observation.’
The PM and the Defence Secretary shook the hands of everyone in the Ops Room and then left for Downing Street.
The train journey down towards London was uneventful. Ted kept up his almost constant commentary which was broken only by short conversations with the manager or his assistant at the control centre. They discussed the terrorist attacks. The nuclear trains weren’t being stopped; just their schedules had received minor changes. This strategy had been approved by their bosses, who deemed that “Their cargo posed too difficult a target and was thus an insignificant risk,’ according to the control room manager.
The controller was in a grumpy mood; he had been trying unsuccessfully to give up smoking and had failed. In his cigarette breaks, Ted chatted with his assistant, a newcomer who had only started working for the nuclear transport company the Monday before. Ted was beginning to wonder if the young lad was stupid. He was charming, but seemed to have little grasp of the importance of his job.
Dick was pleased to find that the intercity train behind them was running late. This meant they could proceed to Shenfield before pulling in to let it pass. They were on the outskirts of London when the young assistant controller came on the radio. ‘My boss has nipped out to his car to get another packet of cigarettes and have a smoke.’
Ted sensed unease in the young lad’s voice. ‘Are you alright?’ he enquired.
‘Yes, it’s just that I wish my boss would get back. I need to go for my morning constitutional – I think it was the vindaloo curry I had last night!’
Ted looked across at Dick and muttered, ‘I suppose that means he’s desperate for the loo.’
The freight train passed through Romford; it wouldn’t be long before they left the main line and started on the next leg of their journey.
The desperate voice of the assistant came on the radio. ‘It’s no good, I can’t wait any longer. My boss should be back soon!’
Dick raised his eyebrows and was going to speak, when Ted cut in. ‘I hope he’s quick!’ He thought back to when he had first driven the nuclear waste trains. The manpower involved in those early days dwarfed the lean efficient teams that had become the norm. Spare capacity was a thing of the past. Forty uneventful years of safe nuclear rail transport had not given rise to complacency, but rather a sense of the mundane had permeated the system and dulled the minds of many involved.
The train was approaching Stratford station. Ted had radioed through to the Control Room. There had been no reply; the manager had not returned from his smoke and the young lad was presumably still otherwise engaged.
As they arrived at Stratford station, the signal for the branch line turned red. Dick brought the train to a halt. As they waited, he noticed that the platforms were almost deserted. After a couple of minutes’ wait the light turned green and the train slowly trundled on to the branch line to start its way around suburban London.
Dick smiled. It had been a good run down from Suffolk. He was looking forward to his extended journey up the west coast and wondered if Ted would, for the first time, be lost for words.
In Manchester, Detective Inspector Rick Feldon was having a chat over breakfast with William Wesson. His fifteen years of interrogation experience told him that there was still at least one more nugget of information to be drawn from this despicable man. Wesson continued to ignore his questions – he was in denial and his defence was to shower verbal abuse on those around him. Rick was getting nowhere. ‘How about we see what’s going on in the world?’
A small TV was brought into the interview room. The channels were filled with special news bulletins showing wall-to-wall pictures of the plumes of smoke resulting from the terrorist attacks. Wesson looked without any apparent interest at the pictures. The detective inspector asked him more questions without receiving any response. It was getting hopeless. He was going round and round in circles.
Time was ebbing away. Rick had an idea. It was time for some creative thinking. He left the room and reappeared a few minutes later with a photograph of a middle-aged woman.
Rick put the photo on the table in front of Wesson. ‘She’s about the same age as your mother, isn’t she?’
There was no reply.
‘She worked as a cleaner at Heysham and was killed by flying shrapnel. A slow and painful death, I understand. Now her two teenage children have no close family to look after them,’ he lied again. ‘What would you and your younger sister have done if your mother had been killed when you were that young?’
Rick pressed on. ‘How would you have felt if you and your sister had had no mother?’
Wesson broke down in front of him. Howls and sobs came from the insufferable little man. Rick had no sympathy for him at all. He had one aim and that was to get from him the missing pieces of information. ‘Your mother rang. She wants to see you’
Wesson raised his head.
‘Why couldn’t she have been the person killed by the shrapnel? She always stopped me from doing the things I wanted to and her tongue is as sharp as a carving knife. I don’t want to speak to her. In fact, I’d be happy if I never saw her again.’
Rick took a deep breath on hearing the unexpected reply. ‘You valued all the properties which were used by the terrorists. We’re missing one more address. You can help us stop the next attack.’
Wesson didn’t move.
‘How do you think your sister, who you’ve protected all these years, will survive as the sister of a murdering, terrorist collaborator? She won’t get any sympathy from her mother, will she? Think about it!’
Rick watched the turmoil bubbling up inside the young man. ‘Now would be a good time to tell me the addresses we don’t know about.’
Wesson did not raise his eyes. ‘All I know is that they have a building which is being refurbished. I do not even know its address, other than it’s in Stratford, East London…’
‘You must tell me more!’
‘I can’t! That’s as much as I know. You see, I accidentally overheard Talal and a director of his discussing this property…’
‘And?’
‘When Talal saw me – his eyes were like my father’s before he lashed out and hit me. He was livid and shouted at me – Never repeat what you’ve heard, if you value your sister’s life! Even if I knew the address, I wouldn’t tell you!’
Rick thought for a moment, concluded that Wesson had nothing more to say, pulled out his mobile and phoned Kate’s direct line. After several rings the call was diverted to the switchboard. ‘DI Adams, please. It’s urgent – Very Urgent.’
‘I’ll see if I can locate her; she’s not answering her phone.’
The seconds ticked by as if they were the last grains in an hourglass. The telephonist came back on the line. ‘She’s in a meeting.’
‘I need your help, please,’ said Rick calmly. ‘I have an urgent message for her. Please write this down: Urgent. Ring Me. Now! -Rick Feldon. As a matter of life and death, please take this message to DI Adams, now!’
‘I’m not allowed to leave my desk unless I’ve got cover.’
‘Of course you’re not, technically, but we’re trying to stop the bastards who planned the Bishopsgate bomb from letting another one off. Understood?’
‘Yes, sir… I’ll go straightaway.’
The phone went dead.
In his chauffeur-driven car en route to Downing Street, the Prime Minister thought about the events of the night. Had he been right in not activating COBRA earlier? The Ops Room at Wood Street had served its purpose and had worked well, he mused. Yes, now was the right time to get COBRA up and running.
He mused on the vast powers that the Civil Contingencies Act gave this committee. To all intents and purposes, when sitting, it became all powerful. In the first instance he chaired the committee, but if he was not available, it fell on the Home Secretary or his deputy to take his place.
The PM’s thoughts turned to his Home Secretary, whom he had chosen in order to placate the wing of his party he found most difficult to deal with. As he leaned back on the soft leather car seat, he wondered whether the Home Secretary and his department spent too much time courting favourable headlines and news coverage. Increasingly, in the few months since taking power, he realised that he had become progressively more anxious as to his Home Secretary’s motivations. The press painted him as good party leadership material and liked his and his ministers’ charm offensive. Perhaps his party’s waferthin majority had prompted his spin offensive and he was jockeying for position in case the PM slipped up.
The PM’s attention refocused on the previous week’s COBRA meeting, which had been convened to sort out the mess left by the Bishopsgate bombing and to foil any follow-up attacks. The minutes showed it had been a straightforward meeting. It had been chaired by the number two at the Home Office, a loyal supporter of the Home Secretary, with liaison officers from the MoD, the police, MI5, MI6 and the Metropolitan police. This meeting was going to be considerably more difficult. He personally would take the chair.
Deep under Number 10, with the Home Secretary away, his number two had taken the chair. He had arrived at COBRA early, sensing it was his opportunity to take control. By 8.45 a.m. he had a quorum. Against the advice of the permanent secretary, he called the meeting to order and had COBRA up and running. He almost caught MI5 with their trousers down. They had the video link, relaying what was going on at COBRA to the Ops Room, working only seconds later.
The minister chairing COBRA appeared very concerned about the impact of the adverse TV coverage and asked for suggestions on how the news stories and the TV pictures could be made to look less grim.
The army at Hartlepool in particular were doing an impressive job. The zinc factory next to the nuclear power station was belching out acrid smoke. Elsewhere, in the words of one TV commentator at Cruden Bay, ‘The locals must think that they are on the edge of a war zone, what with all the explosions and the dense smoke.’ Aldermaston and Heysham also looked grim.
The Home Office minister relished his time in the spotlight. He cleared his throat. ‘First, we must counter these awful pictures with something that will prevent us from looking feeble and, second, we should consider what the terrorists might do next and what we can do to stop them. The second part, I shall leave to the PM who will be joining us shortly.’
The minister looked around the room ‘We need to deflect the TV coverage and show the public that we’re playing hard ball with the terrorists. I have a colleague working on this. Do I hear any other suggestions?’
‘Perhaps COBRA should start vetting everything going on air, as was the case in Iraq?’
‘Good idea. We should implement this now,’ he turned to his colleague, who had come up with the idea. ‘Derek, would you please look after this personally?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Derek stood up to leave when the door suddenly opened and the Prime Minister walked in with the Defence Secretary and his personal secretary at his side. The PM, as the screen at Wood Street showed, beckoned Derek to sit down, strode over and stood facing the minister.
The room fell silent.
‘Minister, am I right in believing that last night you declined an invitation as the Home Secretary’s stand-in to meet with the commissioner of the City of London police force and three very high ranking officers of the State?’
The minister looked most put out and went into bluster mode.
‘But I wasn’t told who would be there and I was extremely busy. I had a speech to make. I’d already issued a press release and I knew that there would be excellent press coverage. Anyway, I rearranged the meeting for this morning. So no harm was done!’
The Prime Minister’s voice took on a steely tone.
‘Your judgement call was fundamentally flawed. Events have moved on. You should have been a safe pair of hands on which the commissioner could have relied. Instead you placed personal spin above the needs of your country.’
‘That’s quite untrue, Prime Minister; the press conference was for the good of the Government.’
The PM beckoned to his personal secretary, who walked over to the minister and placed a typed letter in front of him.
‘For your signature,’ said the PM.
The minister read the short letter and looked up at the PM, his eyes conveyed hostility. ‘Why should I resign at this of all times, when I’m needed here?’
The PM looked at him as if he were a bad-tempered schoolboy. ‘That meeting you were too busy to attend last night is still going on. The stakes have been so high that we haven’t been able to trust anyone unless they’ve been within a secure intelligence-monitored environment. Suffice it to say that the two gentlemen missing from this meeting aren’t the only moles we’ve found in senior places.’
‘What do you mean…? But I am needed here.’ ‘
Sign the letter or I will be forced to fire you.’
The minister was livid and intent on letting everybody know it. He hesitated, signed the letter and was escorted out of the room by the PM’s personal secretary.
The Prime Minister looked at the statue-like faces around him. ‘I think that we can now get back to business. Let me put you in the picture as to the events of the past thirty-six hours. However, lest you worry that things are being left to drift, let me assure you that a fully staffed Operations Room has been up and running since yesterday evening and is dealing with matters as we speak. The Defence Secretary and I spent the night there, and were there less than an hour ago.’
The PM, with input from the Defence Secretary, gave a detailed description of the events of the past thirty-six hours and the strategy that had been put in place for dealing with the terrorists.
A little earlier, back at Wood Street, at 9.39 a.m. Kate’s phone had rung. It was the main desk.
‘A junior minister from the Home Office is here to see a Mr Khan. I’m advised that you might know something about his whereabouts? He wants to see him, with two senior officers, in an interview room now!’
‘Leave this to me,’ said John. ‘I will tell him this is a very inconvenient time.’
Kate looked at Rafi. They were now alone in the room. ‘How are you holding up?’ she enquired in a concerned manner.
‘OK, but I wish we could find the last terrorist. I’m on tenterhooks with this waiting for Rick Feldon or Roger Harewood to get back to us.’
Kate’s phone rang. It was a very disgruntled John. ‘The junior minister is insisting that he sees Mr Khan. He says that he has a direct order from the Chair of COBRA, his boss. It seems he hauled himself and his press entourage over to Paddington Green police station only to be kept waiting and then to find Mr Khan wasn’t there. He was redirected to MI5 headquarters and they sent him here. He’s furious – says he’ll throw the book at us unless we let him see Rafi immediately. He refuses to understand that things are at a very delicate stage and won’t take no for an answer. He has told me that he’ll use his powers under the Civil Contingencies Act to make us cooperate, or else.’
‘I have spoken to Beverley. Giles and David have gone to a meeting with the deputy commissioner of the Metropolitan Police to brief COBRA’s police liaison unit and can’t be disturbed. I can’t find Ewan. So it’s down to us. The minister keeps saying that he has to find out how much more Mr Khan can tell him about the Bishopsgate bombing and the recent attacks. Basically, I reckon all the self-obsessed cretin wants is a smokescreen: a story to tell the news teams outside in order to deflect all the bad publicity the Government is getting.’
‘Damn it! Why the hell now?’ blurted out Kate.
‘Because the man doesn’t live in the real world!’ Tiredness had reduced John’s ability to remain calm.
‘Sounds like the old saying: “They came to do good; they stayed to do well”,’ added Rafi.
‘Thank you, Rafi,’ said Kate in a frustrated tone.
‘Anyway,’ continued John, ‘I suppose we’ll have no option but to let him see Rafi.’
‘OK, but we keep the interview as short as possible,’ Kate replied.
Over the phone she heard John shouting to the duty officer at the reception desk.
‘Oh no! Get those naming journalists away from here! Get the area outside the station cordoned off and keep the bloody press away – at least fifty bloody yards from the front door!’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the prompt reply.
‘Sod it! We need this like a hole in the head,’ said John irritably over the phone to Kate. ‘You and Rafi – meet me in the third floor interview room. I’ll bring the junior minister up.’
‘This had better not take long,’ remarked Kate to Rafi, who sensed her nervousness.
In the stairwell she stopped him, put her hand on his head and roughed up his hair.
‘We can’t have you looking kempt.’ She pulled his rugby shirt out of the back of his tracksuit trousers and looked at him. ‘You’d better take your shoes off.’
‘Seriously? My socks stink!’
‘Don’t worry; it’s all part of the illusion.’ Kate looked him over. ‘Yep, you’ll do. You look awful, and yes, your socks reek!’ To his surprise, she leant forward and planted an affectionate kiss on his cheek. ‘No doubt you’ll be worth knowing after a wash and brush up!’
Kate and Rafi were the first to arrive at the interview room. They sat down and waited. Minutes later John and the politician arrived.
‘Sorry for the delay,’ apologised John. ‘The junior minister had to wash his hands.’
The junior minister, flanked by John and Kate, sat opposite Rafi.
‘I went to see you at Paddington Green this morning only to find you weren’t there. I was redirected to MI5 headquarters – most irregular – and they said I’d have to come here for the full story. I’ve wasted much valuable time and am in no mood to be messed around. Mr Khan, what I need to know is why you aren’t helping the police with their search for the terrorists,’ said the frustrated junior minister.
Rafi looked blankly across the table and remained silent.
‘Thanks to you we had more terrorist attacks last night. Your resistance and reluctance to help are setting a very bad example to the Muslim community. I am advised that a growing number of extremist youngsters are becoming your followers. This is extremely bad for the country. I am here to give you an ultimatum: either you cooperate or I will throw the book at you and your family, do you hear? What do you have to say?’
Rafi looked at the junior minister: at his pale blue doublecuffed shirt, the light pink tie, the immaculate grey suit and the perfectly combed hair. If things weren’t so serious he would have laughed at his pomposity and the bizarre nature of the interview.
‘Are you threatening me and my family?’
‘Damn right I am! Your type should know what they’re up against when they tangle with the Government. You’re outside the laws that protect decent and innocent Englishmen. You should be sent home.’
Rafi’s temper was rising – valuable time was being wasted. ‘I am dark-skinned and a Muslim. Why does that make me and my family undesirable? Answer me that and I’ll help you with your questions.’
The minister was silent for a moment. ‘It is your damn fundamentalism that’s the problem – only permitting one God.’ He paused. ‘And you debase all other religions and criminalise the pursuit of wealth and personal advancement. Your brand of fundamentalism is not only myopic, but it is detrimental to a modern society. You’re all the same: out to undermine our democracy. We will stop you, you know. Your approach to life will be stamped out and the likes of you will be removed from this country.’
Rafi sensed the junior minister was spouting forth a well-rehearsed monologue. ‘Is that your view or the view of others?’ he said trying to conceal his anger.
‘My boss, a senior minister in the Home Office, agrees with me. Fanatical Muslims have no place here. Once our backs are turned, all you want to do is to bring down our democracy.’
Rafi wanted out. Time was ticking away and the idiot on the other side of the table was being absurd.
‘Sir,’ said Rafi, ‘I’m innocent until proved guilty. Find the evidence and then try me.’
The junior minister lost his cool. ‘Of course you’re bloody guilty – we all know that! The CCTV footage alone will convict you. I’ve the press outside waiting for me. I need something to tell them which will make a good story to deflect the coverage of all the horrors you’ve caused. Will you cooperate? Or shall I personally make your life and your family’s not worth living?’
Rafi sat there, too furious to answer.
Without warning, John stood up. ‘Sir, you’re not making any progress. Mr Khan is obviously not going to help you.’
‘What the devil are you talking about, Inspector? Don’t you know who I am? I’m your boss’s boss! I won’t take orders from anyone, let alone a junior policeman!’
John kept his cool.
There was a knock at the door. The telephonist burst in.
‘DI Adams, I’ve an urgent message for you.’ She passed the piece of paper across the table to her.
The junior minister grabbed it. ‘I’ll see that.’
Kate looked at her. ‘What did it say?’
‘Rick someone asked for you to call him urgently.’
‘Oh shit!’ said Kate and dashed for the door.
The junior minister was taken aback. He shouted after her. ‘You can’t leave until I’ve finished with you. Come back here this instant!’
Kate was long gone.
John stood up and looked piercingly at the junior minister. ‘I strongly suggest you stay here,’ he said authoritatively. ‘The constable outside and I will escort Mr Khan back to his cell – in case he does any more damage. You should see the mess he made of the three guards at Paddington Green – nearly killed one of them. He’s a third Dan karate black belt. See his right wrist? He felled a nineteen-stone guard and fractured his jaw.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’ squealed the ruffled junior minister. At this Rafi stood up and started to move towards him.
‘No, get back!’ shouted John. ‘He isn’t worth it.’
‘Get him out of here!’ shouted the squirming junior minister.
‘Yes, sir. I’ll take Mr Kahn to the cells and return to discuss how we can give your press friends a good story.’
‘Do that and don’t be long.’
John and Rafi left. John locked the door, turned to the police constable and handed him the key.
‘Under no circumstances let him out until the commissioner or I get here. Understood? Whatever the minister says, ignore him!’
‘Yes sir. But what about Mr Khan here? Will you be safe with him?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, what about his karate skills?’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything you hear!’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Rafi, go and help Kate; I must contact the commissioner before the minister gets on his mobile and does something even more crass.’
Rafi raced back to the office. Kate was on the phone to Rick; she switched on the speaker.
‘I’ve had another go at interviewing Mr Wesson,’ said Rick. ‘By accident, Wesson overheard Basel Talal and his property director discussing a building in Stratford, which they said would be untraceable. Basel described it as the jewel in the crown and added that its location was one where they’d make a killing. You’re looking for an industrial property in Stratford, East London; it’s undergoing refurbishment.’
‘Thanks,’ said Kate, ‘You’re a star!’
She hung up and rushed out of the room. Rafi was about to follow her when her phone rang. It was the switchboard.
‘There’s an urgent message from Roger Harewood; he wanted to check that you got the fax.’
Rafi hung up, rushed over to the fax machine, scooped up the sheet of paper sitting there and ran to the Ops Room, oblivious to all his aches and pains – and his lack of shoes. He briefly looked at the contents of the fax as he ran. It read: URGENT – I tried to phone. My notes are sketchy. The cold store is a large industrial building located between Billingsgate and the A12 in East London. It is being refurbished. Hope this helps. – Roger Harewood.
As he passed the meeting room where Emma was, he banged on the door and called for her to follow. Seconds later he barged into the Ops Room, skidded to a halt and shouted to Kate, waving the fax in his hand.
‘Roger confirms: it’s between Billingsgate and the A12; a large industrial property currently being refurbished.’
Rafi prayed that they weren’t too late and that the valuable minutes wasted with the junior minister would not be their undoing.
At 9.56 a.m. the PM finished briefing COBRA on the events of the past thirty-six hours.
The video-conference link showing the Wood Street Ops Room was switched on. The PM introduced the Air Chief Marshal, Sir Nigel Hawser, and asked him to update COBRA on the whereabouts of the missing terrorist.
Suddenly, the door behind the Air Chief Marshal burst open and in rushed a scruffy looking policewoman closely followed by a dark-skinned individual with an unshaven face, in a Harlequins rugby shirt, waving a piece of paper and shouting…
Kate and Rafi didn’t stand on ceremony and cut across the PM.
‘We have found the location of the last terrorist. He’s at a large industrial property in Stratford, East London, between the A12 and Billingsgate fish market. It’s being refurbished. I hope it won’t be too difficult to spot from the air.’
‘What’s the target at Stratford?’ asked the PM.
‘Could there be a nuclear waste train in transit near there?’ suggested Emma, who had arrived at the door. ‘It is the only thing left on our list that could fit.’
‘Find out, now!’ instructed the Air Chief Marshal to Colonel Turner. ‘Find the building and then the target should become obvious.’
At that moment John walked in. He sidled over to Rafi and passed him the tape of the interview with the junior minister. He said quietly, ‘I thought that you might like to have the tape as a memento.’
‘Thanks…’ said Rafi tucking the tape into his pocket. ‘They’re looking for the last location; it’s near Stratford, in East London.’
Meanwhile the Air Chief Marshal was on the scrambler. ‘What air cover do we have? A fighter over Sizewell in Suffolk? Excellent! Get it over Stratford as quickly as is physically possible.’
‘There’s also a Tornado preparing to land at Marham, in Norfolk,’ said the squadron leader on a video link with the Ops Room.
‘Get it here in double quick time,’ ordered the Air Chief Marshal.
‘Commissioner, alert the nearest police helicopter and get it to Stratford. The first to arrive will have to locate and take out the terrorist.’
The brigadier called across. ‘The Tornado will be at Stratford in seven minutes and the Jaguar from Suffolk will be there in eight and a half minutes. I’ve alerted the nearest anti-terrorist squad and they’ll be in the area in twenty-two minutes.’
‘Tell the pilots to look for a scaffolding tower, or a platform on the roof of an industrial building overlooking the railway tracks,’ ordered the brigadier.
The colonel meanwhile was getting agitated. He was having a frustrating time finding out where the nearest nuclear waste train was. The clock showed it was just after 9.58 a.m. He’d dialled through on the direct line of the control room coordinating nuclear trains, but he was being given the runaround by the computer-controlled switchboard.
‘Oh damn it!’ he exclaimed. ‘Bloody lift music! What on earth do they think that they are – some poncey retail store?’
A woman finally answered, apologising for the delay. ‘If you’ve come through to me, it means that either the phones in the control room are engaged or the people are busy.’
‘Do you work in the same building as the control room for the nuclear trains?’ enquired the colonel.
‘Yes; they’re on the floor above me.’
‘Excellent! Go right now and get someone in authority to pick up my call immediately. There’s an accident waiting to happen. This is vitally important – do it now!’
With that, the phone reverted back to what the colonel described as ‘bloody bog music’. His face had gone from a normal shade of pink through the spectrum to a bright red. A meek voice came on the phone a minute later.
‘Please excuse the delay… You caught me with my trousers down. How can I help?’ came the response.
‘Do you know the whereabouts of any nuclear trains near Stratford?’
‘Er… Yes and no,’ came an uncertain reply. ‘Sorry I’m not that sure; this is only my first week here. The board shows that there’s one scheduled to pass through Stratford. My boss has gone outside for a moment.’
‘Is there anyone else with you who can help us?’
‘Not really, my boss is away from his desk…’
‘Find him as quickly as humanly possible.’
‘He won’t like being disturbed,’ came the unfortunate reply.
‘Get him now; tell him there’s an emergency and you’ve COBRA on the phone.’
‘You what?’
‘Just get him, now. Tell him it’s a matter of life and death.’
‘Will do!’
Rafi looked up at the clock; it was 10 o’clock. He looked around the room. Everyone was holding their breath; there was a deathly hush. Moments later, the voice of an aggravated man came on the phone.
‘What do you want?’ he barked.
‘Do you have a nuclear train anywhere near Stratford?’ The colonel barked back.
‘Damn it! Who the hell are you?’ came the abrupt reply.
‘Colonel Bill Turner of the anti-terrorist squad; I have the Prime Minister alongside me.’
‘No shit!’ was the reply.
‘Do as he says, now!’ commanded the PM in a stern voice. ‘And before you ask, yes, I am the Prime Minister.’
‘Hold on a moment. Yes, the Sizewell train is running slightly late; it has just left Stratford station and is entering the North London branch line.’
The Colonel shouted down the phone, ‘Tell them to do an emergency stop!’
The voice of the controller was heard over the speaker. ‘Dick, STOP! Stop your train immediately; there’s a terrorist threat!’
‘Where exactly is the train, now?’
‘About 600 metres down the spur line past Stratford.’
‘Get it to back up the main line!’
‘That’s against the rules; I can’t do that!’
‘Do as he says,’ came the uncompromising voice of the PM.
The colonel continued, ‘Get all the trains on the main line stopped.’
‘One flaming thing at a time.’
‘Get them to back up now!’ barked the Colonel. ‘Get them to do it before it’s too late!’
‘Keep your hair on! They’re starting to back up as we speak.’
There was an expletive heard over the phone, followed by a couple of sentences heavily laced with choice words.
‘Did I hear you say that your train has disappeared off the screen… and the radio connection with them has been lost?’
‘Y..yes,’ stammered the coordinator. ‘There was a loud bang and they’ve effing disappeared off the screen.’
Rafi looked across at the clock; it read 10.02 a.m.
The shaky voice of the controller came back on the line. ‘I can confirm that I’ve lost contact with the driver and the satellite positioning marker is no longer functioning.’
The brigadier interrupted the silence. ‘The Tornado is one and a half minutes away.’
Rafi felt spellbound and sick with apprehension. They’d found the missing piece of the jigsaw, but were they seconds too late?
The voice of the Tornado fighter pilot came over the loudspeaker. ‘There’s been one – now two – explosions! The target is a train, just west of Stratford station.’
The Ops Room meanwhile had been patched into the pilot’s on-board camera showing an orange ball of flames erupting high into the air, and the remains of the train strewn across the track -one of the nuclear canisters was missing its front half and the top of the second canister was no longer there. Black smoke spiralled up into the sky, drifting north-west in the light wind.
The Air Chief Marshal spoke to the fighter pilot, who had received the grid reference for the property.
‘Can you identify the terrorist’s position?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
‘Is the building occupied or unoccupied?’
‘Hard to tell sir – it looks vacant.’
‘If you have him on visual, take him out before he fires another missile.’
The terrorist looked across at the burning train wreckage from the top of his scaffolding tower. Radiation would soon be all around him. He launched himself over the side and abseiled from view.
You could have heard a pin drop. That was what they were after – London – the business capital of Europe and the venue of the 2012 Olympics.
It was a disaster.
Having foiled the other attacks, Rafi found it hard to take on board the impact of this terrorist success. He had known that the stakes were high and the consequences would be grave if a nuclear catastrophe occurred, but the reality was numbing.
Emma looked at Kate and Rafi. ‘Sweet Jesus help us! There’s around two tonnes of spent nuclear fuel in the air,’ said Emma, with a lump in her throat, ‘which is something like 20 kg of plutonium and 40 kg of other radioactive particles on the loose.’
The service chiefs had been trained to work under pressure and they were already making plans to deal with the calamity. The Air Chief Marshal spoke via the video links to the Army HQ at Wilton and then to the colonel standing next to him.
‘Activate Operation Counterpane. I repeat, activate Operation Counterpane. Brigadier, advise the Royal Netherlands Air Force that we need every helicopter they can spare, pronto.’
Colonel Gray spoke to the Prime Minister, who had turned a whiter shade of pale.
‘Sir, I suggest that you activate LESLP – London Emergency Services Liaison Panel – immediately. The Metropolitan police are on standby. Although control rests with you and your colleagues at COBRA in the first instance, sir, I suggest that you ask us to coordinate the military element required to contain the disaster, and to oversee the evacuation and the decontamination process for the time being.’
‘Carry on,’ replied the PM. ‘I have two nuclear experts with me who will advise you on the size of the exclusion zone.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ The video link camera at COBRA was swung round and two middle-aged professors came on to the Wood Street Ops Room screen. They spoke to the Air Chief Marshal and explained what data they would require.
En route to the nuclear train, from Colchester Barracks, was a helicopter equipped with radioactivity-sensing devices. Like many others, it had been placed on standby by the brigadier in the early hours of the morning as part of Operation Counterpane. The helicopter pilot radioed through that he would be over the train in seventeen minutes.
‘For the time being, gentlemen,’ said the professors, ‘we recommend an exclusion zone of one mile upwind and four miles downwind. We will give you the precise figures shortly after we have the data in from the helicopter.’
The Ops Room was like a hornets’ nest. The scale of the task dwarfed anything that had ever been attempted in peacetime.
At last, the helicopter flying at 1,000 feet started to collect and send the data on the radioactivity levels through to COBRA. The professors fed the data, in real time, into the impressive-looking laptops in front of them. As the helicopter flew over the smouldering train, the operator of the radioactivity-sensing equipment let out an expletive and advised the pilot to give the train a wide berth next time. The pilot carried on with a predetermined series of flyovers and sweeps of the vicinity on a grid basis. As the volume of data fed back to the professors increased, it became obvious from their faces that the news was far from good – they had turned an ashen colour.
After what seemed like an age, but in reality was only a matter of minutes, the younger of the two professors started speaking. ‘We need to know, Prime Minister, what acceptable mortality rate to put into our models. The scale of the radioactive leak is very large. What level of increased cancer mortality is acceptable? Should we take one additional death per 100,000 people every ten years, or what?’
There was a discussion amongst the COBRA team; a number was agreed on and keyed into the computer model. The other professor spoke up hesitantly. ‘I hope you’re all sitting down. On the basis of the data, gentlemen, the exclusion zone is: two miles upwind of the train, ten miles downwind and the ellipse at its widest point is six miles wide.’
Rafi looked at the map. A vast swathe of London, from Enfield to West Ham and from Stoke Newington across to Woodford, was now destined for dereliction in perpetuity. It seemed completely unreal – like something out of a disaster movie.
‘Air Chief Marshal, we have emailed you the perimeter line of the exclusion zone. It can be superimposed on your maps.’
A hush fell over the two rooms. The second professor spoke solemnly. ‘The exclusion zone has an area of fifty-seven square miles and the length of the perimeter is close to thirty miles.’
Rafi looked at Kate. ‘I’ve had enough,’ he felt gutted. All his attempts had proved to be inadequate. The terrorists had won through. Tears welled up in his eyes. They’d pulled off the big one. Over fifty square miles of one of the most densely populated parts of Europe would have to be totally abandoned and many people would face horrible deaths.
Haunting thoughts flooded through Rafi’s mind. If they had told the junior minister to: Get lost!, they could have got the information on the last property to the Ops Room minutes earlier. Valuable time had been squandered. If the nuclear train had been stopped just a few hundred metres sooner the terrorist would not have had a clear line of sight. The knot in his stomach tightened. He turned, walked down the corridor, to break the bad news to Aidan’s team.
In a monotone Rafi told them of the missile attack at Stratford, and that one of their team should liaise with the Ops Room to be briefed on the scale of the radiation contamination. The ball was now in their court. He left their room and noticed Kate still standing by the door to the Ops Room.
Rafi walked over to her and took hold of her hand. She turned and looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘Come on, let’s go; there isn’t much we can do here.’ But she didn’t move. She stood mesmerised by the screens, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
‘In a few minutes, please,’ she replied. ‘I would like to see what happens next…’
Plugging the gaping holes in what was left of the two spent fuel containers was the immediate task. Access by air was the quickest and safest way to get materials in to cover the ruptured containers. The imperative was to stop further hazardous and highly toxic radioactive waste escaping by entombing the train in concrete.
Operation Counterpane was under way. The army’s HQ Land Command based at Wilton, near Salisbury, had been in a state of full readiness and within minutes of the train being hit by the first missile it was already coordinating troop movements, working closely with those in the Ops Room.
Colonel Turner had passed across a long list of all the available UK civilian helicopters. These were now under the command of the Royal Air Force.
All helicopters within 250 miles and powerful enough to lift a concrete hopper were en route to Stratford. The workhorse Chinook helicopters would be the best at transporting the concrete, but as at 10.45 a.m. the nearest was still forty minutes flying time away. The demands of the armed intervention in the Middle East had seriously depleted the modest size of the services’ ageing helicopter fleet. On paper, the number of helicopters remaining in the UK looked significant, but in practice the majority were out of action, undergoing repairs or modifications. Thankfully, the helicopter squadron from the Netherlands was now only fifty-five minutes away.
Colonel Turner’s team had identified seventeen large building sites with cranes and concrete hoppers. There was a local property development boom going on thanks to the impending 2012 Olympics. Each helicopter was directed to a property development site, where they could pick up a concrete hopper and a crane driver.
It was going to be a dangerous operation, particularly for the first four or five sorties which would be the most at risk when they jettisoned their loads in close proximity to the hot radioactive contents below. In theory, it would be best to use the biggest helicopters first, but in practical terms the colonel opted for a first-come-first-served basis. An added complication was getting the calculations right as to the maximum payload which each helicopter could carry.
The reaction time of the coastguard helicopters was far faster than anything the colonel could have hoped for. The first collected its hopper of concrete within forty-one minutes of the request going out. Having a modest lifting capacity, it was only able to take the hopper a third full, but it was a start.
The pilot and his two crew members were joined by the crane driver and took off with the hopper slung under the helicopter’s belly and headed for the plume of dark smoke which was clearly visible in the overcast February daylight. The pilot made his approach from the south-east – upwind. Half a mile from the train, the helicopter gained altitude and the hopper was lowered to the full length of its steel wires. Hovering over a specified spot was second nature to the pilot – even in a force eight gale. This time, it was different. The risks were unseen.
‘Bombs away!’ shouted the crane driver pulling the mechanical release cord. ‘Now comes the slow bit,’ he shouted. ‘I reckon we’ll be here for sixty to seventy seconds.’
‘Shout when we can scarper,’ yelled the pilot over the noise.
Seventy-five seconds later their task was completed. The empty tubular steel hopper and hawser were ditched; the helicopter banked and headed south.
The co-pilot called back to those behind him. ‘What were the readings?’
‘OK-ish,’ came the reply. ‘No more dentist’s X-rays for a while though, I reckon. But we’re still below the maximum limit and a bit more shouldn’t do us any real harm; just fry a few cells here or there!’
‘Are you willing do a second run?’ enquired the pilot.
‘If no one else is around and we can help stop the radioactivity escaping, do we have a choice?’ asked the crane driver.
The co-pilot radioed through to the Ops Room and spoke to the colonel. ‘Load safely deposited. Our radioactivity gauge shows that we can do another run. Where’s the next helicopter?’
‘It’s five minutes behind you, followed by two more shortly after that, then there’s…’ He hesitated, ‘A bit of a gap.’
‘Sign us up for that slot. Where do we get our next load of concrete from, please?’
The colonel studied the map. His adjutant beside him pointed at a mark on the map, saying, T suggest this one,’ and relayed the coordinates. The pilot moved on to the new course.
‘What did it look like?’ asked the colonel.
‘Devastation,’ replied the pilot. ‘There’s a river and a canal nearby. You’re no doubt aware of where the water goes?’
‘Yes,’ replied the colonel. ‘We’re working on how to stop the radioactivity getting into the water courses and then leaching into the water table.’
Multi-tasking was the order of the day. Kate was roped in by the colonel. ‘Find me a good location to set up a decontamination unit for the helicopter crews and where we can put the helicopters that have been exposed; ideally a small local airfield away from the public gaze. When you’ve found it, get the RAF command centre to set up a decontamination unit and field hospital there.’
‘Yes, sir,’ came the reply.
A private airfield and flying club was found at Stapleford, near the M25/M11 intersection and less than fifteen miles away. She passed the details on to the RAF Control Centre.
‘Let me look it up,’ said the voice at the other end of the phone. ‘Good choice – its main runway will take transport planes. Tell them to expect a couple of Hercules planes within the next forty-five minutes. Get them to clear the area to the west of their runway number 28/10. We will put the contaminated helicopters there.’
Kate phoned the flight centre, half expecting the phone to be answered by an unhelpful individual. It was answered by the manager of their Club House. Kate explained that the RAF needed to borrow their facilities.
‘No problem. We’ve been listening to the flurry of radio traffic for the past half an hour. Is it as bad as they say?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ replied Kate.
‘What can we do to help?’
‘You can expect two Hercules transport planes carrying medical supplies within the hour. They won’t be staying long, as they’ve other deliveries to make,’ said Kate, who went on to give details of their requirements.
‘We’ll clear out the student accommodation block. It’ll make a good medical block and decontamination facility. I’ve only one favour to ask: if you could ask the transport planes to land on the tarmac part of the main runway and not on the grass section, it would be much appreciated,’ said the manager.
Back at the train, the first five sorties flown by the lighter coastguard helicopters had started to cover the ruptured canisters with concrete.
‘Bloody pyramids!’ commented the adjutant. ‘The train line is on an embankment and the concrete pours down off the carriage on to the sloping ground. The base layer of the concrete gets wider and wider but the pile doesn’t get much higher.’
The crane driver in the back of the first coastguard helicopter overheard this conversation and shouted to the pilot, ‘Suggest they add salt to the concrete; it’ll speed up the setting time.’
The first heavy-duty Chinook helicopter did the sixth run and took almost two full hoppers. This was closely followed by eleven more Chinook sorties.
By midday, the ruptured canister and train were no longer visible, buried beneath a small hill of concrete. Phase One had been completed successfully.
Meanwhile, the irate junior minister had been let out of the interview room and was now en route to 10 Downing Street, where he had been summoned to attend a meeting with the head of PR at the Cabinet Office.
Phase Two, which had commenced simultaneously with Phase One, involved the establishment of the exclusion zone.
Four Apache helicopters were tasked with marking the thirtymile long boundary of the exclusion zone and the location of the fourteen decontamination centres. They used a combination of electronic and smoke beacons.
From listening to the conversations, Rafi had gleaned that the main problem was the large amount of radioactive material that the south-easterly wind had picked up and was depositing over a wide area.
The Kornet missiles had thermobaric warheads. These, it seemed, were different to conventional explosive weapons and used the oxygen in the air instead of carrying an oxidizer in their explosives. As one of the army officers explained, ‘They produce more bang for their bucks. Unfortunately there was water surrounding the spent fuel rods. The thermobaric explosion will have extracted the oxygen from the water and liberated hydrogen gas, which will have made the bang even bigger. The ferocity of the blast vaporised much of the radioactive material and blasted it high into the sky. The radioactive plutonium is heavier than lead, so thankfully it won’t travel far. It is the lighter and more highly radioactive isotopes in the spent fuel that will cause the problems. They will stay airborne far longer and are responsible for the unexpectedly large size of the exclusion zone.’
16 Air Assault Brigade, the army’s premier rapid reaction fighting brigade from nearby Essex and Suffolk, parachuted in 750 troops using Hercules transport planes. They were joined by soldiers from the 1st Royal Tank Regiment’s Nuclear Biological and Chemical Unit, stationed alongside RAF Honning-ton in Suffolk, who landed at London City Airport within fifty minutes of the first missile exploding. They were transferred by helicopter to the locations of the fourteen decontamination centres and were tasked with helping clear the ground.
Other soldiers had already started securing the perimeter of the exclusion zone: they were stopping people from entering and directing those leaving the exclusion zone towards the nearest decontamination centre. The public were left in no doubt that the soldiers carried live ammunition and were prepared to use it, if necessary.
Meanwhile, 3,000 soldiers were being airlifted in from all round the UK to reinforce the cordon around the perimeter as quickly as possible. Commercial planes had been commandeered to assist with the troop movements.
Companies of soldiers were tasked with supervising the evacuees and corralling them into the holding areas, located adjacent to each of the fourteen embryonic decontamination centres and the adjoining medical centres which were triaging the casualties and dispensing radiation tablets. It was calculated that over 1,000 decontamination shower units would be required to process the majority of the 900,000 people in around ten hours.
Rafi couldn’t work out where all the planes and people came from. The screens showed the skies full of parachutes. Rapidly, it all became a blur. He stood watching but taking little in.
One question that had been exercising COBRA was how to make certain that the inner exclusion zone was completely cleared of people. A ninety percent rule was adopted. Speed was of the essence. Those who could be moved quickly were dealt with first. Reluctant individuals would be strongly encouraged to leave later in the afternoon.
The squadron of twenty-six helicopters that had flown in from the Netherlands, combined with the armada of private helicopters, were a godsend. Every available decontamination unit and the associated medical support teams within their range were commandeered and delivered to one of the fourteen decontamination centres. The ingenuity of the Royal Engineers and the soldiers from the Royal School of Military Engineering at Chatham and at Minley in erecting the decontamination centres tipped the balance. By the early afternoon 1,250 decontamination shower units were up and running.
Specialist army units moved in to coordinate the mammoth task of clearing the exclusion zone. They were joined by the Territorial Army’s Medical Services and Veterinary Corps.
Thanks to the forward planning, Operation Counterpane had sufficient numbers of paratroopers in planes around the UK ready to take off. Within eighty minutes of the missile explosion the thirty-mile perimeter had a significant military presence guarding the electronically tagged line. The line in the densely built-up areas was zigzag in shape. The smoke beacons marking the locations of the fourteen decontamination centres were clearly visible.
600 Regular and Territorial personnel from the Royal Military Police, Provost Staff and Guard Service arrived to work alongside the local police forces and emergency services. Their first job, with the paratroopers, had been to systematically block all the roads and side streets out of the exclusion zone so that no vehicles at all could leave the area. Lorries and cars were commandeered and used as barricades. Tempers flared as people were forced to walk to safety.
A one-way road system was established to funnel the traffic away from the exclusion zone. In the opposite direction the local police assisted by the Territorial Army established express ways to enable troops, the emergency services and their equipment to get to the perimeter of the exclusion zone. To stop the civilian movement of traffic and keep the roads moving for emergency vehicles, a curfew was imposed on the whole of the Home Counties.
The helicopters that had completed their sorties with the decontamination equipment and medics were tasked with flying in Territorial and Regular Army soldiers in protective clothing to work with the paratroopers to create corridors within the exclusion zone. These corridors channelled people towards their nearest decontamination centre. Those who couldn’t walk were transported by army vehicles.
One of the hardest parts of the operation was to stop panic setting in. All radio, cable and TV stations carried the same content. There was a message from the Prime Minister, followed by an explanation as to what was going on and what people should do.
Appeals for help with the rehousing of those dispossessed went out to councils and people living away from the exclusion zone.
The brigadier and his team were in charge of identifying and unblocking bottlenecks. The decontamination centres were their main headache. They implemented a fast track system. At the holding areas alongside the decontamination centres, units were set up, screening people for alpha, beta and gamma radiation. Where ‘within nominal’ readings were detected, people were given potassium iodate tablets, sent away from the exclusion zone and told that they didn’t need to be decontaminated.
Initially, those people from the fringes of the exclusion zone were found to have negligible levels of radiation and were sent on their way, but soon the contamination levels rose as the radioactivity travelled with the wind and a point was reached where everyone had to undergo decontamination. Logistical problems were experienced as families found that they were being split up in the process. Contaminated children not of school age were allowed to have a parent with them. All other schoolchildren separated from their parents were fast tracked and moved to nearby schools to be reunited with their families as quickly as possible.
It was a bitterly cold day. Thankfully, many of those who had been out in the open had the benefit of wearing heavy winter clothing and much of the radioactive material was removed by simply stripping them of their clothes.
Once naked, the radiation readings were taken again. For those with external contamination and whose skin was intact, it was a relatively uncomplicated procedure: a thorough wash under a shower of warm water and a good scrubbing with a soft brush or surgical sponge. These soon ran out and were replaced with strips of towel. The small proportion with more severe contamination was moved on to a second decontamination section for more thorough treatment.
The brigadier and his team had devised a processing system which enabled those running the holding areas and the decontamination centres to keep track of people’s identities. Bar coded hospital wrist and ankle tags were used and these gave details of whether the person’s identity had been confirmed before they had been parted from all their belongings. This data was cross-referenced with a central database, along with their digital photograph and their basic biometric details.
London City Airport was turned into a transport logistics centre. It was cleared of all its civilian traffic and became a military airport. The runway, at 1,319 metres, was long enough for it to take the CN-235 tactical military transport and Hercules planes. Its close proximity to the exclusion zone was a stroke of luck.
Nearby, on the southern edge of the exclusion zone, the army had set up its field HQ. The coordination of people’s movements, prioritising the casualties and the problems of the long queues at the emergency decontamination units were an administrative nightmare. Logjams became common place as the system struggled to deal with the huge numbers. Nevertheless, substantial progress was being made.
An SOS had gone out to all neighbouring countries which could get decontamination equipment into London City Airport within three hours. The Belgians, Dutch, French, Germans and Irish all contributed to this urgent request from COBRA. By midday their transport planes started landing with their cargoes of decontamination equipment, medics and medical supplies. By early afternoon, planes were stacked high above the southern approaches to the airport, waiting for a landing slot.
Phase Three was proving more difficult. How were the watercourses to be dealt with? Radioactive particles had been thrown violently into the air by the explosion. Those that entered the nearby canal, the River Lea, or the water table would be transported slowly towards Docklands in the City of London. Unless they were stopped quickly, the scale of the exclusion zone would have to be widened, threatening Docklands and the eastern fringes of the City of London. Colonel Gray’s team was given responsibility for coordinating this.
Rafi and Kate stood at the side of the Ops Room looking on in awe. The Air Chief Marshal’s military machine was an impressive sight. The scale of the operation beggared belief. By early afternoon the last task given to the Wood Street Ops Room in respect of Stratford had been completed and an exhausted Air Chief Marshal handed over to COBRA and the command centre in Wilton, near Salisbury.
Under the watchful eye of the brigadier, the focus of the Ops Room moved back to coordinating the capture of the terrorists.
Rafi became aware that Ewan was standing next to him.
Ewan had a pretty good idea of what was going through Rafi’s mind and put his arm around Rafi’s shoulder. ‘You know, had it not been for your early warning, we would be faced with a catastrophic disaster far bigger than anything we are witnessing. Your forewarning gave the Air Chief Marshal the opportunity to take the unprecedented step of putting the whole UK military machine into a state of readiness a full five and a half hours before the train was hit. Your determination to beat the terrorists has enabled us to have a response time we could never have dared dream of. I know it won’t make you feel much better, but thank you.’
While all eyes were on the unfolding disaster at Stratford, MI5 had been tasked with the surveillance of the two Chechen terrorists who were on the run. Without their Kornet and Vektor missile launchers they no longer posed a serious threat to national security. The PM, in approving the plan to let the terrorists run, had made it crystal clear that if they posed any danger to the public they should be stopped by whatever means necessary. The object of the exercise now was to round up the terrorists, their associates and the ringleaders.
Sergy Kowshaya, fired up by the success of his missile attack at Cruden Bay and his escape from the hail of bullets, had in a well-executed move swapped his motorbike for an elderly car. Unbeknown to him, however, he was being observed. He opted for a circuitous route up the coast to retrieve the Vektor mortar he’d left in the utility van the afternoon before. The van was parked on the grass verge in front of a terrace of cottages, just over a mile to the north-west of the St Fergus gas terminal.
Sergy made good time to the van and, 300 metres short of it, he steered over to the bushes at the side of the road, stopped dead and inspected the scene in front of him. All was quiet. He felt under his leather jacket for his Stechkin automatic pistol. He paused and then continued on his way towards the van. Adrenalin pumped through his veins. He knew he would be vulnerable as he approached the van. If the security services were on the ball, there was the possibility that they could have pieced together the location of his second target. If so, they would be watching the surrounding area like a hawk for all unexplained movements.
He stopped his car in front of the van, pulled out a set of keys from his jacket pocket, walked over and opened the van’s sliding side door. On the floor were two heavy-duty workman’s tool bags. He lifted them up, turned and made for the small gap in the hedgerow a few metres away. He dropped to his knees, opened the first bag and lifted out the Vektor mortar. In moments it was pointing through the gap towards the St Fergus gas facility and storage tanks over the slight hill in the distance. He had already calculated the sets of angles of trajectory and compass settings required in ballistic mode. The missiles would explode above the main gas storage tanks.
In the second tool bag, lying next to the mortar, were twenty missiles. He pulled opened the top of the bag, picked up a missile and, in one fluid movement, dropped it down the barrel of the mortar.
‘Svoloch!’ he swore in Russian. The damn thing had misfired; either the firing pin was damaged – but he’d checked it the day before – or it was a dud missile? If so, there was an outside chance that the missile could go off at any moment. The odds were that it was a dud, but did he want to risk it exploding as he got it out of the barrel?
Sergy then did what he would never have done on the battlefield: he left the mortar where it was, put his hand into a side pocket of his jacket, fished out a small explosive with a timing device, armed it and placed it in the bag with the nineteen remaining missiles. He stood up, returned to his car and left the scene, heading towards a small industrial unit on the outskirts of Peterhead.
He was in contemplative mood; he was €3 million richer after his success at Cruden Bay, but destroying the St Fergus facility would have earned him a further €1 million. He abhorred the sense of failure, but whether he had €3 million or €4 million in the bank made little difference – he was now richer than in his wildest dreams.
Moments after Sergy’s car had disappeared out of sight, the three special services men who had been watching his every move broke cover. They had known that the terrorist would suffer a misfire, as they had removed the firing pin, and had watched Sergy place an explosive in the bag with the missiles. The nearest soldier was seventy-five metres away. He spoke with his commander. It was agreed that the terrorist had left an explosive with a time delay to cover his tracks. It was now time to decide whether to investigate or wait for the big bang. The SAS soldier ran crouching close to the ground. If it had been him, he would have set the device to explode in ten minutes in order to give him time to get well away from the scene.
He opened the bag. His eyes locked on to the small explosive device. It was a small but lethal piece of plastic explosive with a sophisticated timing device. The digital readout showed 0:37. Delicately, he picked it up and walked fifteen paces out into the field, placed it on the ground, turned and ran for cover.
Sergy wound down his window; it was a bitterly cold day and the heater of his old car barely made an impression on the wintry air flooding inside. He heard the dull bang of the explosion; it was far quieter than he’d anticipated. His mind put two and two together. Koit, the Russian bastard, had sold them duds. He wound up the window and thought unspeakable thoughts. Suddenly, not having the full €4 million rankled.
Twenty-five minutes later and still thinking foul thoughts, Sergy arrived at the industrial property that had been his base for the past twenty-four hours.
Away from prying eyes, he swapped his car for an old moped and changed into scruffy sailor’s clothes. Unbeknown to him, the front of the property was being watched. It was on Rafi’s list.
Sergy opened the back door to the industrial unit and left via an overgrown dirt track on a short cut through an adjoining property. He came close to losing those watching him, but as he turned into Catto Drive his moped chugged straight past the nondescript MI5 communications vehicle coordinating his surveillance. Instead of heading straight for the harbour he went to a truckers’ cafe a mile away. Here he consumed a hearty English breakfast washed down with several cups of coffee, read a tabloid newspaper and watched, with pleasure, the awful news on the small television secured to the wall. The team, watching his every move, kept their distance.
Just before noon Sergy paid, got on his moped and headed slowly towards the docks. He counted three police cars with lights flashing pass by. They paid not one jot of interest in him. At the docks, he parked a short distance away from the trawler Northern Rose, went into a warehouse and came out moments later carrying a crate of supplies. He headed towards the trawler and climbed on board as she was slipping her mooring lines.
Sergy stood on the deck for a few moments, as if he was looking for a colleague, and then went below deck. Northern Rose motored out to sea and set a course northwards; one that would take her safely past Rattray Head. An hour later she changed course to north-north-west, heading towards Duncansby Head, the Orkney Islands and the Pentland Firth.
The MI5 team were pleased to see Sergy safely on board. Now he was away from the public, the prospect of collateral damage had receded.
Meanwhile, the Nimrod aircraft tracking Golden Sundancer picked up Northern Rose as she headed northwards. The navigator spoke to the Ops Room and COBRA, and gave a predicted rendezvous between the trawler and Golden Sundancer north-west of the Pentland Firth, around 18:00 hours.
Dakka Dudayev, the terrorist who had caused the carnage at Stratford, left the industrial building in a sports hatchback and had, so far, evaded detection. The team tasked with tracking him had become worried; he was thought to be making for North Walsham, but, an hour and a half after the Stratford attack, his precise location was still not known.
There were sighs of relief when he was seen turning off the M 11 on to the A 11. Dakka motored up the A140 to Aylsham and on to North Walsham.
When Dakka entered the industrial estate he saw smoke and flames coming from the industrial unit, two down from where he’d stored his Vektor mortar and the twenty high-explosive shells. Parked right in front of his factory were a fire engine and a police car. The whole area had been cordoned off. He did not hesitate. He casually turned his car around and headed for Great Yarmouth.
Those watching him were pleased to see him leave.
On the outskirts of the town, he slipped off the main road into a housing estate and headed for a lock-up garage. After swapping his casual attire for nondescript fisherman’s clothing, consisting of a duffle coat and patched trousers, and his sports car for a moped, he slowly made his way to the ship repair yard.
At the docks, Dakka Dudayev left his moped a couple of hundred metres away from where Rosemarie was berthed. He walked calmly down the road, through the ship repair yard, past the dry dock, on to the dock side and stepped aboard Rosemarie as her mooring lines were being cast off.
At just after 4 p.m. Rosemarie motored out to sea, turned south on to a bearing of 179° and ratcheted her speed up to an impressive fourteen knots. She, it was thought, was heading for the Straights of Dover, with a likely rendezvous point with Golden Sundancer somewhere beyond the Isles of Scilly.
A second Nimrod was on station to monitor Rosemarie’s progress in case she put into port to offload her human cargo.
In Scotland, the industrial property at Prestwick had been under surveillance by a special forces and MI5 unit since the early hours of the morning. Alistair Hartnell, Basel Talal’s number two, had been identified as a passenger on an internal flight from London Stansted to Prestwick the night before. Hartnell was lying low in the industrial property. He had been joined by an unidentified man late in the evening. His colleague, it transpired, was Kim Chindriani, the man responsible for recruiting potential suicide bombers.
Neither was viewed as being particularly dangerous, but rather were seen as two rats abandoning the sinking ship. Just before midday they were observed leaving the property in a small car and were followed to the dry dock and ship repair facility just up the coast at Troon harbour. They left their car in the ferry car park and casually sauntered across to the ship repairer’s quay where they boarded Highland Belle a whisker after 1 o’clock. A few minutes later, the trawler set sail and settled on to a course of 233° at a speed of thirteen knots. She was heading for the North Channel. No doubt she would leave the Mull of Kintyre to starboard and head north-west out into the Atlantic to her rendezvous with Golden Sundancer in the early hours of the following morning.
On board the trawlers there was sadness that some of their colleagues had not made it. The terrorists had been operating independently and had only been briefed on their targets, but had found out from the news channels that two of their colleagues had been killed at the scene of the attacks. However, the coverage was music to their ears. The combined effect of their attacks sounded devastating. The fires were still burning at Cruden Bay; dark plumes of smoke were coming from Aldermaston, Hartlepool and Heysham, and at Stratford they’d hit the jackpot.
The sheikh and Maryam were also being closely watched. MI6 had sent a team to find Miti Lakhani, but had no news of his whereabouts.
In Luxembourg, Maryam was acting as if it was a normal working day. She was due to remain there until Tuesday, when she was booked to fly back to the Gulf. The reports were that she was looking very pleased with herself.
The sheikh, likewise, was doing nothing out of the ordinary and had spent much of the day at his palatial home, sunning himself by the pool.
In silence, Kate and Rafi had left the Ops Room to get a coffee. After a short break they ventured back.
The commissioner saw them enter and walked over to speak to them. He looked at Rafi with tired and slightly bloodshot eyes. ‘I see that the weight of the world is on your shoulders. You should be congratulated and should not feel guilty! Only two out of nine attacks were carried out. Cruden Bay pumping station will be repaired and will be out of action for a matter of months not years…’
‘But we let Stratford slip though the net,’ said Kate.
‘It was not your fault – understand that! The information came in in sufficient time. It was the system that screwed up and not you – please remember that.’
He looked carefully at Kate. ‘Time you both got some well-earned rest. Rafi, your flat in its present state wouldn’t be very welcoming. My sincere apologies for turning your life upside down. We totally misjudged you. Perhaps we could put you up at a hotel?’
‘Thank you,’ Rafi replied gratefully.
‘Have a rest. But then, I’d appreciate it if you could come back and listen to what your economics team has to say. They have a meeting scheduled with the PM and the Chancellor of the Exchequer this evening, followed by the Bank of England early tomorrow afternoon. If you could be back in action by, say, 6.30p.m. it would be appreciated.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Giles turned to go back to his allotted space on the central desk, when he caught sight of Saara, who was in deep conversation with the brigadier. ‘Your little sister is quite remarkable! For an unassuming person she packs one hell of a punch. Her understanding of things nuclear and her ability to decipher the experts’ suggestions is impressive. If your parents were around they would be very proud of you both… Kate, please look after Rafi. The outside world still views him as public enemy number one. He deserves some proper TLC. Remember, we need him fighting in our corner until all the terrorists have been rounded up and the financial gremlins have been slain.’
Rafi was ready to drop. His head ached, his eyes hurt and was finding it increasingly difficult to take in what was going on around him.
Kate gently tugged at his sleeve. ‘You have been working non-stop for nearly four days. Time to get some shut-eye. First, though, we need to visit accounts to sort out some accommodation for you.’
As they walked down the back stairs towards the accounts office, the prospect of staying in a budget hotel filled Rafi with horror.
‘Are my credit cards working?’ he inquired.
‘Should be by tomorrow,’ Kate replied. ‘I’ll ask Jeremy to arrange for them to be returned to you as soon as is practical.’
They arrived at the accounts department. ‘Hi,’ said Kate. ‘Let me introduce you to Rafi Khan.’ Kate explained their requirements and the importance of confidentiality.
Rafi interrupted her. ‘What I need, please, is a comfortable hotel where I can pay the bill in a couple of days’ time. Unfortunately, my credit cards are still with MI5.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Could you please book me into a suite at the Savoy?’
‘That’ll cost a flaming fortune,’ commented Kate.
He looked at her. ‘I’m exhausted. I could do with a hotel where I know it’ll be really comfortable and quiet, and where the service will be first class. The prospect of a soft, comfy bed and a luxurious duvet at the moment is worth its weight in gold. Don’t worry, as soon as you’ve got my credit card working again, I’ll pay for it.’
‘The Savoy shouldn’t be a problem,’ said the accounts woman. ‘Although I can’t say that we’ve ever used them before. Let me give them a ring.’ She found the number, dialled and began talking to their corporate reservations department. In a matter of minutes she had everything lined up.
To Rafi’s surprise she booked a two-room suite in Kate’s name.
‘It’s the commissioner’s suggestion,’ said the accounts woman. ‘He said that Rafi needed someone to vouch for him as, in the eyes of the public, he is still a terrorist.’
It slowly dawned on Rafi that he had been oblivious to all the press coverage of the past week and the vilification to which he would have been subjected.
‘Fine,’ replied Kate with a gleam in her eye. ‘Good idea. Come on, let’s go.’
On their way to the car, Kate picked up an old pork-pie hat and a scarf, and handed them to Rafi.
As they were getting into the car, Neil Gunton arrived. ‘Goddamn it! We so nearly stopped them from doing any serious damage. I’m willing to bet that Stratford will be a defining point in the history of this country… People will soon be talking in terms of BS and AS – Before Stratford and After Stratford. Even in my book, the sheer scale of Stratford is mind-blowing.’
Neil paused. ‘Sadly, though, I doubt if people will ever appreciate how much carnage your actions prevented. I was talking to one of our boffins; he described what a thermobaric warhead could have done to a waste storage pool at a nuclear power station. In his words, It would have made Stratford seem like an inconvenience. ’ Neil gave Rafi a pat on the back, shrugged his shoulders and went on his way.