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  Laszlo wouldn’t be taking part in what followed. It was a gift from him to his men. Or that was what he had told them. In truth, for Laszlo and the Englishman, this was the final flourish. Just as the flamethrowers spread fear among their potential victims, so did the prospect of rape; and fear, eventually, would bring compliance.

  1

  London

  Friday, 9 September 2011

  14.40 hrs

  PALE SUNSHINE BATHED the Heath, lighting up the autumn colours of the trees. Nannies clustered on benches, gossiping about their employers while their charges dozed in nearby buggies. A pair of Labradors chased each other in the meadows, deaf to the pleas of their owners, and in the distance a handful of hardy swimmers could be glimpsed braving the bathing pond’s frigid waters. Beyond the grand Victorian and Edwardian houses fringing the grassland, the sunlight glinted on the steel and glass towers of the City.

  A young couple strolled along a path near the edge of the Heath, arms intertwined, oblivious to everything but each other. Without warning, four black-clad figures burst from the bushes and bundled them swiftly out of sight. Thrown headlong to the ground, the girl arched her back and tried to turn her head as a gloved hand was clamped over her mouth and her wrists were bound with zip-ties. Her eyes widened at the glimpse of matt-black weaponry and the respirator-covered faces of their captors.

  The sergeant in command of the fully bombed-up assault team leaned in close. ‘Sssh. Stop flapping, hen. You’ll not be harmed.’ Known as Jockey to his mates, because of his size, and Nasty Bastard to his enemies, he knew his heavy-duty Gorbals accent and the rasp of the respirator’s filter were about as comforting as Darth Vader reading a bedtime story, so he tightened his grip and gave it to them straight. ‘Both of you – just lie fucking still and keep quiet. Understand?’

  They both gave a hesitant nod.

  He knelt back on his haunches, hit his pressel switch and spoke quietly into his mic. ‘Blue One. Third party secure.’

  2

  HALF A MILE away, near the centre of what the locals liked to call the Village, the door of one of Hampstead’s more characterful pubs bore a sign announcing that it was ‘Closed due to illness’. Anyone peering through the leaded windows, between the immaculately sculpted flower baskets, might therefore have been surprised to find that the chairs and high-backed settles in its panelled bar were packed with people.

  The landlord was perched on a stool at one end, staring wistfully through the half-drawn curtains at the procession of potential customers moving down the street.

  His paintings, horse brasses and faux-rustic ornaments had all been taken down and stacked in a corner. In their place were massed ranks of portable flat-screens displaying live CCTV and satellite feeds, local news reports and classified video-conferences. A series of grainy A4 prints was clamped to a magnetic whiteboard, which now held pride of place. Closer inspection would reveal that they were all at least a decade out of date, and of just one man, clean-shaven and with a mop of shoulder-length dark hair, against the backdrop of a busy Moscow street.

  The landlord gave an ostentatious sigh. ‘How much longer is this going to take?’

  Clustered around laptops or hunched over communications equipment, his current clientele – some in street clothes, some in police uniform, others still in black Special Forces party gear – didn’t reward him with a second glance.

  ‘Come on, lads, I’m losing money hand over fist here.’

  One of the soldiers finally raised his head. ‘It’ll take as long as it takes, mate. Maybe an hour, maybe all day. Perhaps even all fucking night. You’ll be well compensated for loss of income, so do yourself a favour, will you? Stop bumping your gums and get us another brew. Oh, and a few sandwiches and biscuits wouldn’t hurt either.’

  At the table in the centre of the room, flanked by two lower-ranking officers, James Woolf of MI5 – or, as he always insisted it was called, the Security Service – sat like stone, listening to the mobile phone pressed to his ear.

  Seated next to Major Ashton was a stocky West Country-born sergeant with a shock of wiry black hair. With eight years’ service in the Regiment, Gavin Marks, the 3i/c, was the same age as the boss, but hadn’t had the privilege of the same education. He’d started out as a Royal Marine, but soon seen the light. At least, that was what everyone who hadn’t joined the Regiment from the Navy kept telling him.

  He spoke into his throat mic. ‘Blue One, roger that. When we get the “Go” the police will come and collect them.’

  The ‘team’ consisted of two sub-teams, Red and Blue, each with an assault group and a sniper group, which meant that they could cover two incidents at once.

  ‘All call-signs, this is Alpha. Radio check. Blue Two?’

  The speakers crackled into life.

  ‘Blue Two.’

  ‘Blue Three?’

  ‘Blue Three.’

  ‘Blue Four?’

  The response this time was a double click as Blue Four squelched his radio button. As he did so, the listeners could hear the faint background noise of yapping dogs and a jet on its final descent into Heathrow.

  ‘Blue Five?’

  Gavin glanced at the notepad in front of him. ‘Blue Five. Confirm the sizes on those charges.’

  ‘Blue Five. Two by one metres.’

  3

  UP ON THE Heath, the captive couple had hardly drawn breath, unable to tear their eyes away from the four-man SAS assault team and their welter of weapons and equipment.

  Screened by the bushes, Blue One peered through their weapon optics at the target house. The Heath was lined with mansions like this. Wealthy Victorian industrialists had built them, not just to live in but to make the kind of statement about their position in the world that their current owners – the new aristocracy of film stars, footballers and foreign multimillionaires – were happy to broadcast.

  A nondescript Transit van was parked up on the higher ground at the edge of the Heath. Behind its darkened rear window, Keenan Marshall, a tanned Cornishman, whose newly disciplined hair did nothing to camouflage the surf-dude he used to be, trained the optic sight of his AWSM (Arctic Warfare Super Magnum) sniper rifle with suppressed barrel on the front elevation of the target house.

  Keenan caught a flicker of movement from the upper floor and called in. ‘Stand by, stand by. Sierra One has a possible X-ray [target] on white three-six. Green on blue.’

  Green on blue signalled the colour of the potential hostile’s clothing.

  Gavin’s response was immediate: ‘Armed or unarmed?’

  ‘Can’t confirm. Wooden shutters obscuring.’

  ‘Roger that. Give us what you’ve got.’

  ‘Sash windows. Double-glazed. Wooden frames. Recommend medium ladders. Can’t confirm downstairs windows.’

  ‘Roger that. Blue One, acknowledge.’

  The Scotsman came back. ‘Blue One. Roger that. Possible X-ray now unsighted. Downstairs: no signs of life. No condensation. No shutters. White curtains. Front-door security gates are locked.’ They might have been no more than seconds from launching the assault, but his voice betrayed less emotion than that of a Scandinavian newsreader.

  A fresh voice broke in: ‘Stand by. Stand by. Sierra Four has a possible Yankee [hostage]. Female, coming out of Green . . . wait . . . wait . . .’ Sierra Four was telling them he had more to say: everyone else should stay off the net. ‘She looks pregnant.’

  A woman who looked like she was in her twenties, with blonde hair and a maternity dress so short that it showed almost every inch of her endless legs, had appeared at the side of the house and was walking down the garden. One hand cradled her bump, the other held a plastic spray with which she was squirting the flowers as she strolled along.

  Jockey sparked back into life: ‘Blue One. Confirm she’s pregnant.’

  Gavin’s voice, still controlled but now with a note of urgency: ‘All stations, cancel gas. Do – not – use – gas. Out.’

  The jury was out ab
out chemicals affecting a foetus’s development. But no one was here to kill or deform unborn children.

  ‘Stand by, stand by. Blue One has Posh Lad in the cordon approaching the female.’

  4

  TOM ‘POSH LAD’ Buckingham adjusted his earpiece and stepped out from behind the tree he’d been using as cover. He saw the blonde’s face register surprise as he began walking across the garden towards her. He reckoned she was in her early thirties, roughly his age, though the clothes he was wearing – tweed jacket, Viyella shirt and cavalry-twill trousers – made him look much older.

  He’d chosen the sort of outfit some upper-crust Englishmen wear when they’re trying – unsuccessfully – for a casual look, topped off on this occasion with an expensive leather satchel slung over the shoulder. Gavin had given it the serious thumbs-up as Tom had changed for the op that morning. ‘To the manor born, mate. You look like Prince Charles getting ready to head down to Highgrove for a chat with his plants.’

  ‘It’s just a matter of having the right gear for the occasion, Gav, you know that. Like when you slip into the velvet hot pants, nipple clamps and Spandex thong combo for a big night out.’

  As he approached the blonde now, he brushed an imaginary speck of fluff from the sleeve of his tweed jacket and called, ‘Hello there!’ in his best Etonian drawl. He gave her a disarming smile. ‘You have such a lovely garden.’

  The blonde smiled back. ‘Thank you, but—’

  ‘Did you design this yourself?’ He half turned away from her to admire one of the flowerbeds.

  She gave a hesitant nod.

  ‘I thought so,’ he said. ‘And aren’t these daffodils magnificent?’ He gestured towards the display of red roses tumbling over the pergola beside her, still flowering in early autumn. ‘Absolutely stunning.’ He pulled out his iPhone and took a picture of them.

  ‘Excuse . . . please . . .’ The blonde looked nervous now. Her Eastern European accent was evident, and her hand pressed more tightly against her bump, as if shielding her unborn child from this stranger.

  He continued talking, blithely failing to register her unease: ‘I’m a volunteer for the Garden History Society. We list one new garden every year in our official register . . . and I’d say yours would be a really strong candidate. Would you mind if I put it forward for selection?’

  ‘Is just hobby. Not for public . . .’ She searched for the right word. ‘Not for other people . . .’

  Without a pause, he began speaking in Russian. ‘Would it be easier if we spoke in your mother tongue? I wrote my thesis on the Aptekarsky Ogorod Botanical Garden in Moscow. Have you ever been there?’

  ‘No.’ She showed real concern now, her eyes darting from side to side, scanning the garden behind him.

  ‘Where are you from?’ he said, once more affecting not to notice her discomfort.

  She gestured towards her bump. ‘I’m sorry, you must . . . Excuse, please, I . . . I very tired. Perhaps one other day . . .’

  He treated her to an even more disarming smile. ‘How wonderful! Many congratulations! You know what? My wife’s just given birth to our first – a little girl. Small world, eh? How many months pregnant are you?’

  ‘Seven . . .’

  ‘A boy or a girl?’

  She hesitated. ‘I . . . I do not know. They can’t tell yet.’

  The smile still lighting up his face, Tom shot out a hand, seized her wrist and twisted it back viciously, forcing her to the ground. She cursed and struggled as he whipped an autojet syringe from his satchel with his free hand and plunged the needle deep into her thigh. Screened from the house by the pergola, he kept his grip on her wrist as the sedative took effect.

  ‘You fucked up, I’m afraid.’ His tone was still calm and matter-of-fact. ‘They can tell the sex of a baby at three months. Oh, and daffodils are spring flowers, and yellow, not red.’

  She slumped, unconscious. He zip-tied her hands, then pulled up her maternity dress, exposing her stomach. The pregnancy bump was an ‘empathy bulge’ that a certain sort of man might wear in a pathetic attempt to share his wife’s experience of pregnancy. Except that this one wasn’t warm and fuzzy. A light green substance the consistency of Play-Doh was jammed into the pouch.

  Tom could smell the distinctive linseed aroma of the eastern-manufactured, low-quality plastic explosive. The precise make didn’t matter to him. He was more concerned about the thin steel detonator wires coming out of the PE and twisted around a red and blue two-flex. They disappeared into her clothing, en route to a battery pack. All she had to do was complete the circuit by pressing a button in her coat pocket. The killing area would extend about twenty metres. And Tom was smack in the middle of it.

  Swiftly but carefully, he pulled the aluminium tube from the explosive and separated it from the two-flex, then twisted the two steel wires together to prevent an accidental detonation. Radio transmissions could arc across the two wires and complete the circuit. He pushed the tube down into the soft soil of the rose bed. He rolled the blonde on to her front, turning her head to keep her airway open.

  Still crouching beside the pergola, he spoke into his lapel. ‘That’s the female contained.’

  Gavin’s response was instantaneous. ‘And the baby?’

  ‘No baby. Just a belly-rig full of PE. Looks like the gas is back on.’

  As Gavin called it to the others – ‘All stations, this is Alpha, the gas is back on. Out’ – Tom took a respirator from his satchel, fitted it to his face, then pulled out a fat-barrelled ARWEN 37 launcher. ‘Alpha. Come on.’ His words echoed across the net. ‘We’re compromised. We’ve got to go. We’ve got to go now.’

  From a distance, the ARWEN's bulbous 37mm barrel and revolving five-round cylinder had the look of a kid’s Super Soaker – but delivered a whole lot more than a water jet. Its kinetic energy baton rounds were powerful enough to drop a small horse. Its ‘value’ impact rounds could not only drop the horse but envelop it in its own gas cloud. And its pure gas rounds – CN (chloroacetophenone) was the irritant of choice – could fuck up anyone’s day. Finally, if required, the weapon could fire pure smoke to cover the movement of assault teams.

  Tom had pre-loaded five Barricade Penetrating Irritant Rounds intended for use against car windscreens, interior doors and plywood up to 13mm thick.

  A disc of CN within the round ruptured as it penetrated the barricade, whereupon its combination of rapid deceleration and rotational spin dispersed a cloud of fine powder inside the target area. The spec described it as ‘non-lethal’ or – as Tom preferred – ‘compliance’. There was no CN ‘gas’ being used on this job, but everyone found it easier to call it that.

  5

  ‘ALPHA. WAIT OUT. Wait out. I do not have control. All stations wait out.’ Gavin gave Woolf a quizzical look. He wanted to crack on as much as the rest of the team. ‘Well?’

  The MI5 man, still with his mobile phone glued to his ear, avoided his gaze. ‘I’ve no decision from COBRA yet.’

  Gavin gave a weary shake of his head and, not for the first time that day, exchanged a ‘What the fuck?’ look with Major Ashton. He shot a quick glance at the rolling news bulletin, hoping that the stock-market update wasn’t about to give way to hysteria in Hampstead. Ever since the Iranian Embassy siege fiasco, when the world had watched the SAS assault teams storm the building on live TV, the media had been kept well out of the way of Regiment operations. Had any of the terrorists been watching the TV coverage during the build-up to the assault, the hostages might all have been killed before the troopers could reach them. And these days, when every Tom, Dick and Harry had a camera phone, it was only a matter of time before an operation got prematurely exposed or totally fucked up.

  Ashton saw Woolf’s free hand tug more vigorously at a strand of his thinning hair as he barked into his secure mobile. Old habits died hard under pressure. ‘The situation is now critical. I need COBRA’s authorization at once. Not in five minutes, but now.’

  The Civil Contingencies Com
mittee – incorrectly but universally known as ‘COBRA’ after the acronym for Cabinet Office Briefing Room ‘A’ in which it had once met – was tasked to deal with every emergency from fuel-transporter strikes to terrorist attacks. An excellent set-up in theory, as it brought together the supreme commanders and most highly qualified specialists to manage any crisis situation, but in practice, as he and Woolf already knew, and Gavin was discovering, the sheer weight of expertise often stood in the way of a speedy and coherent response.

  Woolf was fuming, and with good reason. Ashton could picture the chaotic scenes that would be playing themselves out in the corridors beneath Whitehall.

  6

  THE SCREENS COVERING the end wall of the conference chamber carried the same CCTV and satellite feeds as the command centre in Hampstead. The room was windowless; the ‘skylight’ in its ceiling merely concealed a bank of SAD illumination units.

  A huge rectangular table filled most of the available floor space, the leather seats surrounding it occupied by ministers and civil servants from the Home and Foreign Offices and the MoD, together with the DSF (director of UKSF, United Kingdom Special Forces), and an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, who was in constant telephone contact with Woolf.

  Many of them had just walked to the fortified cellar beneath Whitehall. Sited between the Houses of Parliament and Trafalgar Square, COBRA was linked by corridor to Downing Street, the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and the Cabinet Office.

  The murmur of conversation was barely audible above the hum of the air-conditioning as they waited for the home secretary, chairing the meeting as usual, to finish consulting with the senior civil servant at her elbow and call them back to order. Her grey hair testified to her long experience, but her porcelain features and impeccable diction still led some people to make the mistake of underrating her. They were the same people who also mistook her kindness for weakness. It was a serious error. She was as tough as an old squaddie’s boot, with the language to match, and could be as ruthless with her subordinates as she was with her political adversaries. She was used to junior ministers jockeying for position and squabbling over their places at the table.