Bombproof (15 page)

Bones McGee has a bad feeling in his guts, which started in his stomach and seems to have shifted lower to his colon and his bowels. Now he feels as though his insides will flood unless he keeps clamping down on his sphincter.

Events have taken on a surreal, almost comic book sensibility. They’re being played out on TV. Reported live from the scene. A banner rolls across the bottom of the screen declaring: LONDON UNDER ATTACK.

Another bomb has gone off - this time on the Underground. One person is dead and scores are injured. What are the chances of a bomb going off so close to the first explosion? Remote. Infinitesimal.

Forensics teams are vacuuming, dusting and bagging debris on the records floor of the Central Criminal Court. They’re putting together a jigsaw or at least collecting the pieces in the hope they fit together. Meanwhile, detectives are interviewing the security guards and studying footage from the CCTV cameras.

Already a picture is emerging. The bombers had inside information and assistance. They knew the location of the security cameras. They had a cover story. The ‘out-of-order’ lift must have been sabotaged some time on Saturday evening. The building manager called the regular lift repair company, which promised to send a repair crew on Monday morning. That call was intercepted and a repair van stolen from outside a house in Ealing some time on Saturday night.

Bones calls Murphy. He can hear laughter and music. London is under attack and Murphy is throwing a party.

‘Tony, mate, what are you doing to me? I’m feeling pretty vulnerable here.’

‘You worry too much. It’s under control.’

‘Is that what you call it?’

‘It’s not your concern, Bones.’

‘But I am concerned, Tony. I got MI5, Special Branch and the Counter-Terrorism boys rattling cages and putting a bug up people’s arses. Your boys fucked up big-time.’

‘My boys aren’t your concern. This is just a squall. It’s going to blow over.’

‘A squall? This is a force ten gale, Tony, and we just hit the sodding iceberg.’

‘Relax. Come over? Have a drink. I got a band.’

‘Yeah, I can hear it. They had a band on the Titanic, which kept playing all the way down.’

Murphy loses his temper. ‘You’ve got a smart mouth, Bones. You think you’re funny. You think you can ring me and tell me what to do. You’ve taken my readies. You’ve eaten free at my restaurants. You’ve grown rich on my fucking largesse. So don’t you start talking to me about icebergs or start eyeing the life-boats. I own you, Bones. I’ve owned you ever since you took that first free fuck at my club. I could have saved myself a lot of money and blackmailed you after that, but I kept being generous.’

‘I don’t think you should talk to me like that, Tony.’

‘I’ll fucking talk to you any way I please. Everything you have is down to me. The Italian kitchen, the season tickets to Stamford Bridge, that state-of-the-art, whatsit plasma TV you got in your front room.’

‘You’ve never been to my house.’

‘I know all about you and your little peccadillos, Bones, like that bird next door you’re banging behind her husband’s back and your bit of property speculation in Ibiza - the apartment in your brother’s name. I funded that fucking thing as well.’

Bones has stopped trying to interrupt.

‘ … so don’t talk to me about icebergs and force ten gales. This is a squall. They happen. That’s why I take out insurance. You’re my insurance policy, Bones. I paid my premium. I got you. That’s why you’re going to keep your mouth shut, your head down and your ear to the ground. You’re my man on the inside. You can dictate events.’

Yeah, right, thinks Bones. Just like a fish in a whale.

24

Sami has washed his face, shaken the glass from his hair and tried to scrub the bloodstains from his shirt. Back in the bar he takes a seat and rests the rucksack between his knees, looping the strap around his left hand.

Sinbad is going to be here soon. That’s got to be a good thing.

He glances at the TV. Footage from the Underground shows a twisted metal carriage and passengers emerging with blackened faces, covering their mouths with handkerchiefs and pieces of cloth.

Some survivors took mobile phone images in the seconds after the explosion. Sami spies himself in the background putting a tourniquet around a man’s leg.

A blonde reporter appears on screen, nodding at the camera knowingly, as though she has seen it all before.

Someone turns up the volume.

‘ … television pictures don’t really give a sense of what it’s like to be standing here, Dean, knowing that less than forty feet below me a train carriage has been destroyed by a terrorist bomb causing death and destruction.’

The camera cuts to Dean in the studio: ‘Have the police been able to confirm or deny if these were suicide attacks?’

The camera cuts back to Trisha: ‘At this stage police are refusing to confirm or deny the nature of the attacks, Dean, but with multiple bombsites, one underground and the other at the Central Criminal Court, this will obviously be a very complex and difficult investigation. Forensic teams are sifting through the wreckage at each scene and detectives are examining thousands of hours of CCTV footage in a bid to identify the bombers.’

Cut to Dean: ‘Have the police indicated who might be behind these attacks?’

Trisha nods. ‘Not at this stage, Dean, but there is speculation that the Old Bailey blast could have been aimed at disrupting the trial of Pakistani-born brothers, Hammed and Mani Yousef, who face charges of plotting to blow up a British Airways flight from Qatar during the summer. That trial was due to begin on Tuesday.’

Dean nods: ‘Some news outlets are reporting the possibility of more devices.’

Trisha nods: ‘Yes, Dean, this is a major concern for police. Central London has been effectively locked down. All buses and trains have been stopped and are being searched. Police are also manning checkpoints on roads in and out of the West End. I have never seen such a large police presence on the streets of London.’

Dean seems to have run out of questions. Trisha doesn’t want to go.

‘There is a real sense of defiance among survivors and rescuers, ’ she says. ‘Sadly, all too often, Londoners have experienced events like this before and refuse to be cowed or to submit.’

Dean adds, ‘I guess the best description of it would be bloody but unbowed.’

‘Absolutely, Dean,’ says Trisha.

Who are these people, thinks Sami.

Back in the studio a professor of Middle Eastern Studies says the bombings are most likely the work of home-grown Islamic extremists. His Adam’s apple is bobbing up and down beneath his skin as if trying to break out.

Sami has heard enough. He turns away from the screen. Orders another beer. Sami has fourteen pounds and fifty-five pence left - not counting the brick of money in the rucksack, which is not really his. Possession is nine-tenths. If he gets out of this, he’ll give nine-tenths of the money to the victims of the bombing and the other tenth can go back.

If he gets out? Sinbad isn’t coming. They’ve blocked the roads. They’re going to search vehicles.

‘Hey, listen to this,’ says a guy at the bar, pointing to the TV.

A different reporter is standing outside New Scotland Yard. Wind rattles his microphone and his tie keeps blowing up into his face.

‘ … police have in the past few minutes released security camera footage of a suspected bomber seen fleeing the scene of the Underground blast.’

Video images replace the reporter - a street scene, shot from above in grainy colour. The flashing blue lights of a police car draw Sami’s gaze and then something else - a figure moving towards the camera. Someone familiar.

It’s a surreal experience to see oneself depicted on TV, thinks Sami, as he watches the figure run down Oxford Street. Only it isn’t a depiction. He is playing himself. See Sami run. See Sami jump. See Sami knock over pedestrians.

There is a new banner rolling along the bottom of the screen: BOMB SUSPECT EVADES POLICE

The reporter is still talking: ‘The suspect is described as being of medium height, slim build, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt and carrying a black rucksack …’ At that moment the footage freezes and zooms in on Sami’s face. Is he really that pale? It’s the prison suntan.

Nervously, he glances around the bar. Everyone is still watching the TV. Staring at it. Contemplating the man. The mind. What possesses somebody to set off a bomb?

Another banner is running along the bottom of the screen: BUSES AND TRAINS SUSPENDED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

A man next to Sami groans. ‘I was supposed to be at Heathrow an hour ago. I got caught on the Piccadilly line.’ He has a New Zealand accent. That must be his luggage near the door.

Sami nudges the rucksack further under his feet, but the Kiwi spies it anyway.

‘Same boat, eh? Where were you heading?’

‘Nowhere,’ says Sami.

‘On your way home, eh? Where you been?’

‘Here and there.’

Suddenly, a woman’s voice cuts across the conversation.

‘He’s got a rucksack!’

Sami’s head jerks around as though tied to a string. The woman is wearing a business suit and pointing at him accusingly, her mouth preparing to scream. Her eyes meet Sami’s. There is a tingling in his throat, like a taut wire vibrating against his neck.

Everyone in the bar has turned to stare. Even the reporter on screen appears captivated by the moment.

Sami straightens his legs and plants them on the floor. His hand is still wrapped around the strap on the rucksack.

‘What you got in the bag?’ asks the barman.

‘Clothes and stuff.’

‘Show us,’ says the Kiwi.

‘Why?’

‘’Cause you’re making everyone nervous.’

Sami glances from face to face.

‘I’m not the guy they’re looking for.’

‘That’s cool.’

‘I’m not dangerous.’

‘Nobody is saying you are.’

A door behind Sami opens and closes. Someone has slipped out. They’ll probably stop the first policeman they see.

Sami slings the rucksack onto his back. A dozen people collectively crouch and swallow wetly.

Sami is at the door. Outside. Turning right. Right again. Where is he going? There are two police officers on the corner. He turns back heading down Whitcomb Street towards Trafalgar Square. A police van is on a slow circuit of Leicester Fields. He ducks into a laneway. Leans his back against a wall. Trying to outrun them on foot is a loser’s game. They’ll corner him and wait for reinforcements.

Sami has to go off the radar. Disappear. He has money now - the stash from the safe - but first he has to get out of the West End; out of London.

There’s a church across the square. He can hide inside. Stash the rucksack in a dark corner. Say a prayer. It’s a good plan.

He comes out of the alley and finds three policemen in front of him. One of them has a gun and is crouching, holding it in two hands, like he knows how to use it.

‘Don’t move,’ he yells at Sami. ‘Put the bag down.’

Sami looks behind him … looks ahead. Holds his fist in the air. His thumb cocked. Empty, but they don’t know that.

‘I got a fucking bomb,’ he yells, not recognising his own voice. ‘Get back or I’ll flatten this place.’

The rozzers melt away. Sami runs past them. The one with the gun is lying on the ground, on his elbows, trying to get a shot. Sami keeps moving, zigzagging from side to side like he’s seen in the war movies.

A bomb! He told them he had a bomb. What a joke! What a prize fuck-up. Sami isn’t just unlucky, he’s a walking jinx, a Jonah; he’s the one-legged man in an arse-kicking competition; he’s the Irishman who burnt his lips trying to blow up a bus. Forget master criminal - Sami isn’t even a minor one. He doesn’t open safes. He doesn’t threaten police. He doesn’t blow up trains. He plays guitar and wants to be a rock god.

Fifty-four hours ago he got out of prison. Thirty-six hours ago he bedded Kate Tierney on Egyptian cotton sheets at the Savoy. Life was good. Life had promise. Now he’s the most wanted terrorist in London.

25

Mid-morning. Bright and clear. Ruiz heads out of London towards Blackheath, staying south of the river and avoiding the congestion charge. His Mercedes 280E is forty years old but lovingly restored with two-tone wheels and a racing green paint job.

People look twice at a car like that. They wonder who’s driving it. They envy him. They want to trade places.

Just after midday he pulls up at a house on Shooter’s Hill Road, overlooking the heath. Tony Murphy has come a long way from a two-up, two-down in Kilburn. Now he lives in a mansion with columned porticos and oak trees shedding leaves into his swimming pool.

There’s some sort of party in progress and cars are parked along the driveway and in front of the garages. A marquee has been set up on the lawn attached to the conservatory via a white tunnel of canvas. A buffet is laid out on long tables and waitresses in short black skirts and white blouses are carrying silver trays with champagne flutes.

Ruiz recognises some of the guests, but can’t put names to their faces. Murphy’s friends are a mix of bar-owners, licensing lawyers, union officials, bookmakers, porn stars and celebrity chefs.

A valet offers to park Ruiz’s Merc. He tosses him the keys and walks across the grass.

Dressed in a beige suit and a cream turtleneck sweater, Murphy is holding court, telling a joke about three nuns and a blind man. Ruiz fills a plate with roast pork, venison, salad and a bread roll. Picks up a Corona, wanders over and joins the group.

‘ … So the air conditioning at the convent isn’t working and the nuns are sweltering. They take off their clothes to cool down, but there’s a knock on the door. The youngest nun yells from inside, “Who is it?” And a voice replies, “It’s the blind man.”

‘The nuns look at each other, relieved, and let him in. This big burly fucker in overalls comes through the door and says, “Holy shit, sisters, great tits. Where do you want me to hang the blinds?”’

Laughs all round, too loud and too long.

Ruiz takes a mouthful of potato salad. ‘You can’t beat an old joke, can you, Tony?’