The Codex File (2012) (48 page)

A series of beige marble archways, neatly offset by floral displays, antique wooden furniture that had barely aged despite its vintage, and countless paintings of rural landscapes, all originals, filled the bustling space.

In the foyer a swarm of bodyguards, security officials, and media advisors filled the hotel entrance, watching every door for the merest hint of danger.

Hotel managers were attentively ensuring the Saudi leader’s stay had been as comfortable as possible. Comforting themselves that his every whim had been met.

In the midst of the bodyguards, President Mahmoud Khalefa Al-Haifi spoke rapidly in Arabic on a mobile phone to one of his senior advisors. The aide was waiting to greet him upon his arrival on his personal jet at Heathrow airport with yet more reports to read for the next leg of his European tour.

The sooner he left this cold country the better Al-Haifi thought, ending the telephone call, signaling his intention to leave to his bodyguards. With all the pleasantries complete the entourage exited the lavish hotel and headed for the waiting limousine.

President Al-Haifi was escorted to the centre car which sat, door held open, at the foot of the steps. As the car door closed, the procession of limousines began its slow exit from Cavendish Square towards Regent Street and out of London.

Vincent Trevellion and Sebastian Tate sat at their normal table in the Japanese restaurant, overlooking busy Oxford Street below. Their food had been delivered and they’d ordered no further interruptions from the waiting staff unless they requested it.

At two tables nearby four of Tate’s security men sat menacingly, preventing any idle access to the table or their view. Tate spoke quietly into his mobile phone, listening intently to the responses he received.

A few seconds later the call was over. Trevellion looked expectantly at Tate as he placed the mobile phone down on the table.

“
They’re on their way,” he said assuredly.

“
And the integrity of the network?”

“
Everything is fully operational. All the diagnostic tests have been carried out, and carried out again. The network is totally robust. As soon as they reach Whitehall the app will be launched.”

A slight sneer crossed his ageing, distinguished face as he reached for his glass of white wine, turning to look out the window. His gaze rose to the rooftops of Oxford Street filling their view.

All along the route security personnel from his department were stationed. Either on rooftops, in shop doorways, or in armoured cars. The security details had been arranged with the Saudi security force. The Saudis would protect their leader directly through their convoy of vehicles on the way to Heathrow airport. UK security forces would monitor the route to prevent any unfortunate incidents occurring. How ironic Tate thought, catching sight of the convoy as it moved seamlessly up Oxford Street. Little did the Saudis know the details of the route had been passed on via Miles Winston, the Secretary of State for Defence, to CODEX.

The five black limousines glistened in the sunlight as they glided up the road. Passers-by stopped to look at the impressive sight. Each trying to peer in through the tinted windows to catch sight of who this important celebrity was.

The two men watched as the cars slipped past the restaurant below, continuing their journey in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. On the rooftop opposite Trevellion counted four snipers monitoring the progress of the convoy. Legitimate UK security personnel, all known and accounted for by the Saudi security force.

As the procession drifted out of sight the two men returned to their previous positions. Tate replaced his wineglass on the table, picking up his mobile phone. Glancing quickly at his watch he dialed the number he required. The phone was instantly answered at the other end.

“
They’re past us now, heading towards Tottenham Court Road. Keep me informed. I want to know if there are any deviations on the route.”

The petrol tanker turned onto Westminster Bridge and began to cross the Thames, the London Eye and County Hall impressively rearing up on the river bank opposite. Glancing in his rear view mirror the driver was sure he hadn’t been followed. The time on the dashboard’s digital display signaled he didn’t have much time.

Reaching almost the centre of the bridge he turned off the tanker’s ignition, letting the vehicle idle to a stop. In the same instance he hit the button for his hazard lights, watching in his mirrors as the steady stream of traffic began to move round the apparently stricken vehicle.

Reaching into his shirt pocket he pulled out his mobile phone and quickly dialed, anxiously glancing at the clock on the dashboard. A familiar male voice answered.

“
I’m in position and about to exit the vehicle. Everything’s set.”

Ending the telephone call the driver jumped down from the cabin onto the pavement which ran across the bridge.

“
Everything OK?” a passer-by, a suited man in his mid-40s, said as he walked past.

“
Bloody engine just died on me. Can’t get the thing damn started. I’m going to have call out the RAC I think,” he replied cheerfully, reaching into his pocket for his mobile phone to validate his statement.

As the suited man continued his walk across the bridge the driver looked around him. No-one was paying particular attention to his situation. Everyone was too eager to get to their own destinations.

Putting the phone to his ear he began to walk slowly up the pavement and away from the petrol tanker.

President Al-Haifi looked up from his papers with minimal interest as the convoy moved slowly through Trafalgar Square, a series of road works on the route slowing their journey slightly.

In the seats in front two burly security guards sat with their earpieces securely in place so the entire team could communicate instantly at the sign of any threat. Not that he had any particular concerns. His security team’s competence was never in question. And the security intelligence collated prior to his European tour hadn’t indicated any potential threats.

All in all, the trip to the UK had been a great success. At least for his country. Following his election four years earlier he’d energetically, even ruthlessly at times, pushed forward the oil reforms he and his cabinet felt were required. The nationalisation of the Saudi oil industry had been met with furious indignation from oil companies and nations worldwide.

Company after company had been forced to withdraw their operations from Saudi soil, and then suffer the indignity of paying higher premiums on exporting oil to service their own national needs.

It had been a painful deal for the countries involved, but a universally popular deal in his homeland. And now, four years on, here he was, holding court with the all the leading European national leaders. Listening to them beg for reductions in the oil tariffs because it was crippling their national economies.

Dr Marcus McCoy had been no different and had argued very strongly, offering diplomatic concessions and deals elsewhere. But behind the media spin and message of national pride McCoy openly preached was a vicious bully who’d tried ever political trick in the book to try and intimidate him.

But he was having none of it. And even when he pointed out fuel prices could be eased in this country by a reduction in fuel taxes, there was, unsurprisingly, little enthusiasm for that solution.

In the end, their mini-summit had reached a publicly amicable stalemate whilst further ministerial discussions took place. And now his attention turned to similar negotiations with the French President, another dour belligerent man who would also be trying to bully him into submission.

The convoy journeyed past Nelson’s Column and turned into Whitehall. The elegant buildings of the Treasury and the Foreign and Cabinet Offices slipping by as the convoy sped on to its destination. The President smiled to himself, imagining the grey bureaucrats convening emergency meetings to discuss the lack of ‘co-operation’ the Saudi nation was giving to their economy. Maybe if they came back with some improved financial, military or diplomatic proposals he might consider some sort of concession on the oil tariff. But without it, he wouldn’t be moving his position.

On the corner of Trafalgar Square and the entrance to Whitehall a stocky man in his early 30s leant against a lamppost, talking into his mobile phone. He watched nonchalantly as the convoy of black of limousines eased their way past him and onto Parliament Square, careful not to give the vehicles any attention.

The convoy headed away and the man dropped his mobile phone into his shirt pocket and pulled a small black tablet computer from inside his jacket. The machine, already booted up, flashed a number of options on the compact screen. In the bottom corner a status bar displayed the local wireless network’s integrity. It was at a full 100%. With a few keystrokes, and a quick tap of the ‘Enter’ key, the screen went momentarily blank. The job was done.

A brief message flashed up on the screen.

‘
Connection to remote IP address successful. App successfully downloaded’

The man half-smiled, slipping the mini tablet handheld computer back into his jacket pocket and retrieving his mobile phone. He had to make his report.

Pulling out of Parliament Square the second of the five black armoured Limousines turned onto Westminster Bridge. The leading vehicle was about 20 feet in front. The President’s own car was a similar distance behind. The rest of the convoy came into sight in the rear view mirrors as they also turned onto the famous bridge.

Four Saudi security officers occupied the leading car. All were armed, and all wired up on mobile earpieces linked to the President’s car where the head of the Saudi Security Force was also travelling.

As the convoy eased along the bridge the driver was struck by the impressive view that looked out over the River Thames. Driving on he could see the London Eye as it made its slow journey round its axis. Tourists were pressed to the window of every capsule. Camera flashes reflected off the glass, lighting up the dreary lunchtime sky.

A part of him was slightly disappointed they’d not had the chance to see some of the sights on this trip. But there had been no time. The schedule of their visit was too tight for such indulgences.

Without warning his colleague in the passenger seat began to gesticulate at something up ahead, disturbing his private thoughts. Looking beyond the leading limousine a petrol tanker was blocking the left lane ahead, its hazard lights blinking. The driver watched as the first Limousine pulled out into the right hand lane to move past the stranded vehicle. But his attention was quickly brought back to his own vehicle. The digital computerised display on the dashboard began to flash violently as warning lights beamed on and off in unison. To the right, mounted on the dashboard, the SatNav which was directing their journey was fading in and out before finally the screen went blank.

“
What’s going on?” the security guard in the passenger seat said anxiously, his right hand instinctively reaching inside his jacket to where his gun was holstered.

“
I don’t know,” the driver replied frantically as the car began to veer from side to side.

Grappling with the steering wheel the driver fought to keep the vehicle under control as it slid from the left lane to the right and back again.

“
I can’t control it,” he yelled as the petrol tanker loomed before them.

“
Brake, use the brakes,” the second security guard yelled, frantically looking for some means to stop the car.

The driver’s foot flattened the brake pedal to the floor. But instead of the car slowing it began to increase in speed, the engine revving noisily in protest as it gathered pace. Grabbing the handbrake, pulling it as far upwards as he could, the driver began to pray as the car hurtled forward at an ever-increasing speed, almost in front of the stationary petrol tanker.

The other three security guards were all yelling instructions, frantically looking for a means to get the limousine under control. The second security guard leant over, grabbing the steering wheel in a vain attempt to stop the car’s onward journey.

As the petrol tanker loomed large in the front windscreen the driver looked to the photograph of his wife and his young daughter fastened on the dashboard to the right of the steering wheel and prayed he would see them again.

In the President’s limousine behind, the two security guards riding in the front of the vehicle were watching in a state of raised anxiety as they viewed the swerving limousine close in on the tanker. The head of the security force was bellowing instructions into his mobile phone, demanding to know what was going on as he tried to communicate with the driver in front. Receiving no reply he ordered the driver of the President’s limousine to brake and take evasive action.

President Al-Haifi’s papers, which had been sat in his lap, spilled into the foot well in front of him. Gripping the light brown leather seat he braced himself as the limousine slammed to a halt. Looking beyond his security guards to the scene in front, his eyes widened as the vehicle up ahead failed to slow, seeming to pick up speed as it approached the petrol tanker blocking the road.

The four men in the car flinched as the limousine ploughed into the back of the tanker with a deafening bang. For a second there was nothing but silence as they all held their breath.

The tanker detonated in an immense explosion which shook the whole of Westminster Bridge. A searing petrol fireball swallowed up the limousine that had hit the tanker, quickly spreading as the inferno ignited into a sprawling blaze, obliterating everything in its path.