Soft Target (47 page)

where Wright and a female BTP officer were with Shepherd,

Leicester Square, where Ramshaw was with Reid, and Tottenham Court Road, where the rest of the BTP officers were staked out.

'How's it going, Stu?' asked Wright, through the earpiece.

'Bored rigid,' said Shepherd.

'You can pop up for a coffee,' said Wright.

'Maybe later,' said Shepherd. The BTP had wanted Wright and Ramshaw on the operation because they had seen Snow White and her crew up close. But they'd decided not to stake out the Trocadero again in case the steamers recognised any of the undercover officers. Four new BTP undercover officers were hanging around the amusement arcades while the officers from Wednesday's operation were in the tube system.

Shepherd was wearing his leather jacket, blue jeans and a grey pullover. Wright had been more creative and was dressed as a priest, complete with dog collar and a shabby document case with the name of an East London church stencilled on the side.

Shepherd folded his arms, and felt the Glock hard against his left side. He couldn't get over the fact that armed police were going up against teenagers, but Shepherd couldn't forget how the boy had casually knifed the little girl. There had been no fear in his eyes, no regret. He'd smiled as he stuck the blade into the child's flesh. Shepherd wasn't happy about being taken off ARV duties, but he was glad to have another crack at the Snow White gang. This time he'd be quicker off the mark.

Eric Tierney had seen it all on the streets of Brixton. On a good day it could be a heart-warming, lively place, vibrant in its ethnicity. On a bad day it was a cross between a third world slum and a war zone. Over the six years that Tierney 382 had been a paramedic, he'd tended teenage boys with bullet wounds, twelve-year-old girls after back-street abortions,

drug overdoses, young men who'd had pub glasses thrust into their faces, underage prostitutes who'd been slashed with razors. On a bad day, Brixton was the closest thing to hell that Tierney could imagine. But it was never dull.

Tierney would have hated a nine-to-five job in a factory or office. Not that he'd ever tried one. He'd joined the army from school, and trained as a medic. He'd done ten years in uniform and served in Iraq, then decided that if he didn't leave before he was thirty he never would. The Ambulance Service had snapped him up and sent him to work in South London where his skill in patching up bullet wounds was a welcome bonus.

Today Tierney had started work at two and it was only four fifteen but already he had dealt with two heroin overdoses and a toddler who had been knocked out of her pushchair by a bus driver who had the dilated pupils of a drug-user.

The police had taken the man for a blood test and the little girl was in intensive care with head injuries.

The fourth call of the day was to a man lying face down in the street. That was all the information they had. He could be drunk, on drugs, or dead. The driver had the siren and lights flashing but the traffic was heavy and there was no room for the cars ahead to pull to the side, so they had to wait it out.

The ambulance crawled along the road. Eventually Tierney saw a small crowd of onlookers and a police car with its blue light flashing. He grabbed his resuscitation kit, opened the door and ran down the street. As he got closer to the police car he slowed. The body was on the pavement, close to the road. One uniformed officer was holding back the onlookers,

the other was on the radio. Tierney could see why neither was attending to the man on the ground. There was a large 383 I pool of blood around him: a body couldn't lose that much and still be alive.

Tierney knelt down beside the body, taking care to avoid the blood. He couldn't see a wound, but there was no doubt that the man had been stabbed or shot. There were no ¦

cartridge cases on the pavement and the local gang-bangers tended to use semi-automatics because that was what they used in the movies. The man had probably been stabbed. |

Tierney put a hand on his back, preparing to turn him over.

'CID's on the way,' said one of the officers. 'Best leave the body where it is.'

Tve got to confirm that it is a body,' said Tierney, 'check for a pulse.'

'Waste of time,' said the officer.

'Them's the rules,' said Tierney, although he knew the officer was right. He felt something hard and oblong under a the coat, and frowned. He moved his hand round the body and felt another object, the same shape as the first. He sat back on his heels. His first inclination had been to turn the man over, but now he was having second thoughts. Something was not right - something that was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He remembered a poster he'd seen in Iraq, one of many produced by the Americans. It warned of the dangers of suicide bombers, and on it was a photograph of a vest with pockets that held tubes of dynamite - not oblong blocks like Tierney had felt but tubes like Blackpool rock. Tierney craned his neck and looked at the man's face. It was pale but definitely Middle Eastern.

'Get those people back,' Tierney said quietly.

'What's wrong?' asked the officer.

'Just move them back, get everybody as far away from here as you can.'

Tierney reached for the bottom of the man's coat and pulled it slowly up his legs. Then he rolled it up to the man's waist. He saw grey canvas and knew his hunch had been right. A few more inches and he could see three pockets,

each containing something oblong. Tierney swallowed. His mouth was bone dry.

'Is that what I think it is?' asked the officer, his voice a harsh whisper.

Tierney didn't reply. He eased the coat higher. It snagged on something and he cursed. He couldn't reach the coat buttons without turning the body over, and he didn't want to risk that. It was something for the bomb-disposal experts.

But Tierney wanted to be sure. He eased the coat from side to side, then pulled it further up the body. He saw wires.

Red and blue. Now he was sure.

Major Allan Gannon enjoyed his monthly meetings with the head of the Met's Anti-terrorist Squad. Commander Ronnie Roberts was a career cop who'd worked his way up from the beat in South London, with stints in Special Branch and the Robbery Squad. His office on the eleventh floor of New Scotland Yard overlooked Broadway, and as Gannon stood at the window and looked through the bomb-proof curtains he saw a group of Japanese tourists photographing themselves in front of the famous triangular rotating sign.

'How does it feel to be a tourist attraction?' asked Gannon.

'It's a funny old world, isn't it?' said Roberts. 'On the one hand we're supposed to be Dixon of Dock Green and walking guidebooks for tourists, and on the other we've got machine guns at Heathrow and surveillance operations on terrorists trying to buy anthrax spores over the Internet.'

'I blame TV,' said Gannon. 'Newspapers make do with words but TV needs pictures and sound. The Iranian embassy siege did it for us. Once they saw us in action they wanted 385 to know everything. Next thing we know there's movies about us, kill-and-tell books, the works.'

'I don't know who thought openness was a good thing,'

said Roberts, 'but they should have slapped a D Notice on anything connected with you guys. Now every man and his dog knows what weapons you have and how you train.'

'And everyone in the world knows where MI6 is,' agreed Gannon. 'Never understood that. They're supposed to be the Secret Service but they allow their HQ to be featured in a James Bond movie. And they act all surprised when the IRA takes a pot-shot at them with an RPG.'

There was a knock on the door and a secretary showed in Greig Mulhern, number three at Special Branch. He shook hands with Gannon and Roberts and sat on a sofa in the corner of the room. He was a bulky man, almost square, with a thick neck and bullet-shaped head.

'Coffee's on the way,' said Roberts. The meeting had no agenda and no notes were taken. It was just an opportunity to share information without having to go through multiple layers of bureaucracy.

'Martin not here yet?' asked Mulhern. Martin Jackson was

travel he was, more often than not, the last to arrive. He worked for GCHQ, the government's eavesdropping facility that monitored phone, satellite and Internet traffic around the world.

'On his way,' said Roberts. 'How's business?'

'We've got the Yanks on our back, big-time,' said Mulhern.

'They want us to put undercover guys in the London mosques. They're picking up intel that al-Qaeda's planning a big one in the UK.'

'That's just them wanting to keep us on side,' said Gannon.

'Every time public opinion swings against what they're doing in Iraci, they crack on that the whole world's in danger.

Remember what Bush said? You're either with us or against us.'

Mulhern scratched at his shirt collar. He had short arms and he always had trouble finding shirts that fitted. Either the sleeves were too long or the collars too tight. 'They're not talking specifics, but they rarely do in case they give away their sources. But they say there's a big one being planned and that they'll be using Muslims with British passports.

Invisibles.'

'That narrows it down to - what? About a million?' Gannon laughed.

'Thing is, do you know how many Arabs we have in Special Branch? Or how many could even pass for Arab or Pakistani?

The answer is a big fat zero.'

'Five's the same,' said Roberts. 'They've got Oxbridge graduates who can speak the languages and who know everything there is to know about the culture, but they're all whiter than white, so undercover operations are out of the question.

We're only just getting black officers into our undercover units. We don't have a single Arab we could put into play.'

'What's the nature of the London threat?' asked Gannon.

Mulhern shrugged. 'No details. But there's been heavy selling short of the UK market through New York from clients out in the Middle East. That much is a fact. Someone reckons the London stock market is going to plunge.'

'Not all terrorists play the market,' said Gannon, drily.

'Agreed, but there was a lot of selling short of shares in the airlines whose planes crashed into the World Trade Center,' said Mulhern. 'But it's not just the trading, there's been phone traffic in which British Muslims were referred to.'

'Do you think they've got intel they're not telling you about?' asked Roberts.

Mulhern frowned. 'It's possible, but if they have they're playing it close to their chest. They might well have an undercover agent somewhere in the al-Qaeda network and don't want to expose him by giving us the full details.'

'So what's the game plan?' asked Gannon.

'We've got sympathetic Muslims in most of the country's mosques,' said Mulhern. 'We'll put out feelers. That's about all we can do. Martin can tell us what GCHQ is doing. I'm sure the National Security Agency has already been on to them.'

A harsh beeping came from the metal case at the side of the sofa. It was Gannon's satellite phone. He stood up and went to it. As he reached for it, the pager on Mulhern's belt went off. As Mulhern checked the message, one of the phones on Roberts's desk rang.

The three men exchanged a worried look. It couldn't be a coincidence that they were being contacted at the same time. Something had happened. Something big.

Rose sat deep in thought as Sutherland drove the ARV away from the traffic-lights. It was a cold day but the heater was on too high and he could feel sweat running down his back.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and ran his hand over his shaved head.

'You okay, Sarge?' asked Sutherland.

'Huh?'

'You're a million miles away. Something wrong?'

Rose forced a smile. 'Just bored. I hate these days when nothing happens.'

Dave Bamber was sitting in the back by the MP5S. He was a ten-year veteran of SO 19, a Welshman with a shock of freckles across his nose and cheeks. 'I like a quiet day,

myself,' said Bamber.

'It's because we haven't got Jonah on board,' said Sutherland.

'Jonah?'

'Stu Marsden. Every time we have him in the back, shit happens. First day on the job we get the call to Big Ben.

Then the shoot-up at the pizza place.'

'Yeah, bugger about Kev, right?'

'He'll be okay,' said Rose. 'The other guy let loose with a shotgun first. Kev was lucky he didn't get a face full of shot.'

'He and Stu are up for commendations,' said Sutherland.

Rose stared out of the window, tight-lipped. If only he hadn't driven down the road at the moment Marsden had been attacked, he would never have told him about the Harlesden job or taken him to see Swift.They'd have recruited someone else and done the second job, Kelly would have flown to Chicago and everything would have been all right.

Now it was turning to shit. Unless he did something fast he was going to prison and his daughter would die.

Rose had replayed his conversation with Swift and Marsden over and over in his head as he sat in the front seat of the ARV. He and Swift had confessed to everything - the robbery,

disposing of Ormsby's body, the Dublin drugs deal. They'd told him about their guns. It was open and shut.

'Commendations don't mean shit,' said Bamber.

'Yeah, that's what Stu said.' Sutherland laughed.

Rose and Swift had spent fifteen minutes before their shift working out their options. That they hadn't already been busted by IIC meant that the powers-that-be were waiting for something. Marsden's evidence plus the gun would be all that was needed to file charges against them both, so the fact that they hadn't already been arrested meant that IIC wanted more. Marsden hadn't been wearing a wire, so maybe that was what they wanted: he would try to get them to confess on tape. Maybe he'd even get them to talk about the next job. If that was so they had a few days' grace, a few days in which to dig themselves out of the shit they were in.

They could get rid of the guns. Rose could dismantle them,

screw up the barrels so that they'd get no usable forensics,

then throw away the pieces where hopefully they'd never be found. They'd have to make sure they weren't being followed.

It had been a big mistake telling Marsden where Ormsby was buried. The alarm bells should have rung when he'd asked where they'd put the body, but he'd seemed so bloody reasonable. He was a cop, for God's sake, an undercover cop,

and they hadn't spotted what he was up to. Rose gritted his teeth.

They'd have to dig up the body and move it. Rose wasn't looking forward to that. He wasn't looking forward to any of it. The money would have to go, too. There was no way he could pay for Kelly's operation now, not without showing out. The best he could do was sit on the money until after he'd retired, and by then Kelly would be dead. Rose stamped on the thought. No way was he going to let his daughter die.

He took a deep breath. Sutherland flashed him a sideways look. 'This vest is killing me today,' Rose said. 'Must be putting on weight.'

'Take the plate out,' suggested Sutherland.

'Yeah, maybe,' said Rose, but he left it where it was.

So, they got rid of the guns, moved the body and took care of the money. What then? They already had cast-iron alibis for the night of the Harlesden robbery. Without a recording of the conversation that had taken place on Swift's balcony, it would be Marsden's word against theirs. Two cops against one. They could try to pass it off as a joke, claim they were just pulling the new guy's leg. That would leave Swift in the clear, but Rose's situation was more complicated.

There had been the drugs deal in Dublin. He'd used his own car to cross the water. And the biggest problem was what had happened on Thursday night: the shoot-out. One man dead and two in hospital. That was the part that made 39O I I I no sense to Rose. If Marsden, or whoever he really was, was an undercover cop, then why had those three guys driven down from Manchester to kill him? And if Marsden's bosses had heard about the shoot-out, why hadn't he been pulled out? The big question, the one that Swift and he still had to deal with, was what to do with Stuart Marsden.

Major Gannon strode into the Management Information and Communications Centre. He was carrying his grey metal sat phone case. Two uniformed officers were behind him and Commander Roberts brought up the rear. 'Who's in command here?' shouted Gannon.

A uniformed inspector in shirtsleeves stood up at a workstation.

'Who are you?' asked the inspector.

Tm the guy with a direct line to the prime minister, and as of now I'm in charge,' said Gannon. 'Major Gannon, SAS.

I need you to do exactly as I say over the next few minutes.'

He looked up at a large clock on the wall behind the inspector's desk. It was four thirty-one.

Commander Roberts flashed his warrant card at the BTP inspector. 'Roberts, Anti-terrorist Squad,' he said. 'Just follow Major Gannon's instructions.'

Gannon swung his sat phone on to the BTP inspector's desk and held up his hands. There were some twenty men and women in the control room, all wearing headsets and each facing three flat computer screens. Most were talking into their microphones but all were looking at Gannon.

'Would you all please stop what you are doing, right now?'

Gannon shouted. 'No matter who you're talking to, cut them off.'

Most of the officers did as Gannon said but some continued to talk. Gannon waved at the uniformed officers who had arrived with him. They walked over to those who were talking and unplugged their headsets.

'As of now we are dealing with a category-one emergency,'

said Gannon. 'This has priority over everything else until I tell you otherwise. You will not answer the phones, you will not deal with any other enquiries. I can tell you that a man wearing a vest full of high explosive has been found on the pavement in Brixton with a map of the tube, and we believe that King's Cross station was the intended target.'

The inspector's jaw dropped. 'What?'

'It's unlikely that King's Cross would have been the only target, which means we have to assume that there are other person-borne explosive devices heading towards others.'

Gannon smiled grimly. 'That's what we call suicide bombers these days - person-borne explosive devices. I want every CCTV camera on the tube system checked now. We are looking for Arabs wearing bulky clothing, or anyone who looks suspicious.'

'You can't--' began the inspector.

Gannon silenced him by pointing a finger at his face. 'If you say “can't”, “won't” or “shouldn't” to me again, one of the men with me will throw you through that window over there,

and I don't care what floor we're on. You will listen to me, you will answer my questions and you will carry out my orders,

because if you don't a lot of people will die. Are we clear?'

The blood had drained from the inspector's face. 'Yes, sir.'

'Good man. I need you to contact the manager of every station on the Underground system and tell them to send their staff to the platforms. If they spot anyone suspicious they are to radio in here and notify you. We will then view the person on your CCTV screens. Got that?'

The inspector nodded.

'How many stations are there on the system?'

'Two hundred and eighty-seven,' said the inspector.

Gannon did a quick calculation in his head. Even if each call could be completed in a minute, it would still take one 392 man almost five hours to contact every station. They would have to split the workload. There were twenty officers here.

Even with all of them on the case, it would still take about fifteen minutes. 'Split your officers into teams and divide the stations between them. Cover the ones with mainline terminals first.'

'Yes, sir.'

Gannon pointed at the BTP sergeant who had been sitting to the inspector's right. 'Show me how this equipment works,'

he said, and sat in the inspector's chair. 'Get me one of those headsets.'

Rose looked at Sutherland. 'I wouldn't mind a coffee, Mike,'

he said.

Before Sutherland could say anything, the main set burst into life. 'MP to allTrojan units. Possible Operation Rolvenden in Central London, location unspecified. All Trojan units to report to nearest mainline rail station and await further instructions.'

Sutherland frowned. 'That's a bit bloody vague,' he said.

'Ours not to reason why,' said Rose. 'What would our nearest station be?'

Sutherland looked across at his visual display.

'Six of one,' he said. 'Victoria, Charing Cross. Waterloo if you want to cross the water. They're all five minutes away,

max.'

'Victoria,' said Rose. 'I can get a decent coffee there.' He picked up the main set microphone. 'Trojan Five Six Nine, en route to Victoria Station.'

Shepherd's earpiece crackled. It was the female control officer at the Management Information and Communications Centre.

She sounded blonde and thirtyish but that might have been Shepherd's imagination in overdrive.

'PC Marsden, please switch channels to three-seven.'

'Will do,' said Shepherd, but that was easier said than done with the radio in the small of his back. He got up and walked to the far end of the platform where there were fewer passengers and retuned it to channel thirty-seven. 'Marsden receiving,' he said, into his cuff.

'Bloody hell, Spider, you said you were in deep cover but I didn't think you meant going underground literally.'

'Major?' said Shepherd. 'Where are you?'

'The BTP control centre. I asked what resources they had in play and when they said they had a couple of SO 19 officers undercover I asked for a description and put two and two together.'

'No one can hear you, can they?' asked Shepherd.

'I've got one of those headsets on and everyone's working so hard they don't have time to eavesdrop on me,' said Gannon. 'At four twenty-four today a suicide bomber was found on a Brixton street, knifed. He was on his way to King's Cross and we know he was looking to detonate at