“Way down the City Road, sir,” she replied. “I’d say making for the City now.”
Grace turned off the road, moving from one street to another. Hannah said into the radio, “She seems to be aiming for the Tower of London.”
“All right, enough is enough,” Ferguson replied. “Put out a general alarm. I want her stopped.”
As Grace Browning reached St. Katherine’s Way, a police car moved to block her. She swerved around it and carried on. Hannah mounted the pavement to pass the police car and went after her.
They were into Wapping High Street now, and on the other side of the road, bearing down on her, Grace saw two police cars. One of them edged out to block her way and she put a foot down like a dirt rider, broadsided, and disappeared into a narrow side road. Hannah turned after her and the two police cars followed.
They twisted from one narrow street to another, passing between tall, decaying warehouses, old-fashioned street lamps on the corners, and finally turned into a slightly broader street, the lights of boats on the river beyond. She roared to the end of the street and stopped. Hannah braked to a halt, the two police cars behind her. The four uniformed men in them jumped out and ran forward.
“Detective Chief Inspector Bernstein,” Hannah told them.
“Is this important, ma’am?” a young sergeant asked.
“Very much so. The target is also highly dangerous. Are any of you armed?”
“Only me, ma’am,” the sergeant said and produced a Smith & Wesson.
At that moment the Daimler arrived with Ferguson, who got out and hurried forward. “This is Brigadier Ferguson, my boss,” Hannah said.
“What the hell is going on?” Ferguson demanded. “What’s she playing at?”
Grace Browning sat astride the motorcycle, the engine turning over as she looked toward them, anonymous in the dark helmet.
“She, sir?” the sergeant asked.
“Yes,” Ferguson told him, “but don’t let that deter you.”
“He’s right, son,” Dillon cut in. “You’ve never faced a harder prospect.” At the moment, Grace Browning raised her arm. “She’s coming!” Dillon cried.
She revved the engine and roared down the street toward them, putting a foot down at the last minute and sliding round, pointing the other way.
“What’s she playing at?” the sergeant asked. “No way out. A dead end. That’s Samson’s Wharf.”
Grace Browning increased her speed and at the last moment raised the front wheel and lifted off high over the edge of the Wharf, pausing for a moment, then plunging down into the Thames.
They all ran along the street and stood at the edge of the wharf looking down at the swirling water, but nothing showed except white foam in the murky yellow light from the street lamps and then the black helmet bobbed to the surface.
“Jesus!” the sergeant said. “Why did she do that?”
“Because, as you said, sergeant, it was a dead end, no way out,” Charles Ferguson told him. “Better call in the River Police and all the usual services, we’ll leave it in your hands.” He turned to Hannah and Dillon. “One person who won’t be too displeased at this outcome will be the Prime Minister,” he said as they walked to the cars. “Lang, Curry, and now the woman, all dead. Easy to say none of it ever happened. Rupert Lang can have an honorable funeral as befits a Minister of the Crown.”
“And Belov, sir?” Hannah asked.
“No problem, Chief Inspector. Just leave him to me.”
Fog rolled across the river, rain drifting in, and something washed in through the shadows by St. James’s Stairs. Grace Browning surfaced and hauled herself up a ladder onto a wharf. Her leathers were wet and she unzipped the jacket and tossed it into the river, then turned and ran along the deserted waterfront, a shadowy figure moving from one patch of light to the next.
She reached Dock Street within ten minutes, scrabbled behind the old dustbins and found her plastic bag under the sack. There was no one about and she stood under a street lamp bracketed to the wall above, stripped off her pumps, the leather pants, and soaking tee shirt. She stood there quite naked for a moment, toweling her hair and body, then pulled on the tracksuit and trainers. She put the raincoat on, took the two black shoes from the bag, each with a thousand pounds inside, and put them in the raincoat pockets. Then she started to walk.
Fifteen minutes later, she reached the multi-storey car park next to Wapping Underground Station. When she went down into the basement it was a place of shadows, cold and damp, but her Mini car was waiting in the yellow area. She opened the car, got inside, found the keys under the mat, then she found a comb, put her hair into some sort of order, and tied it back. A few moments later she drove out of the car park, turned into the main road, and was on her way.
In his office at the Ministry of Defence, Ferguson spoke to the Prime Minister on the red phone, giving him an account of the night’s proceedings.
When the Brigadier was finished, the Prime Minister said, “I don’t want to sound callous, but a rather satisfactory end to the whole saga. Lang, Curry, and now this Browning woman, all gone. Only Belov left, and I’m sure you’ll sort him. I presume you’ll have no difficulty in treating her unfortunate death as accidental?”
“You may rely on it, Prime Minister.”
“Good. All good fortune in Ireland tomorrow.”
The Prime Minister put down the phone.
At that precise moment in time, Grace Browning was coming out of a motorway service restaurant on the outskirts of London, a bacon sandwich and two coffees inside her. She felt warm again, the chill of the River Thames long gone. She got behind the wheel of the Mini, pulled out onto the motorway, and started on the next stage of her journey to Coldwater.
KENT
DRUMGOOLE ABBEY
ARDMORE HOUSE
LONDON
1994
FIFTEEN
It was just after one o’clock in the morning when Grace Browning reached Coldwater village, passed the George and Dragon and the village green, and found the sign a quarter of a mile farther on that pointed the way to the airfield. She turned down the narrow lane, then pulled in on the grass verge and switched off her lights.
She found a small torch in the glove compartment, got out and proceeded on foot, the final caution, but she had to be sure. She paused on the edge of the runway. There was a light on a bracket above the hangar door where she and Tom had inspected the Conquest, and there was another in the Nissen hut.
She waited for a moment, then, keeping to the shadows, crossed to the hangar and worked her way to the Nissen hut. When she peered through the window, she saw Carson sitting at the table, an enamel mug in one hand, a chart spread in front of him. Satisfied, she turned back across the runway and returned to the car.
She switched on the lights, started the engine, and set off across the runway. When she reached the Nissen hut she turned off the engine and sat there waiting. The door opened and Carson appeared.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” she said. She got out of the car and looked across at him.
“You’re early. Where’s your friend?”
“Change of plan. He won’t be coming. I thought I’d get here early in case of weather problems.”
“You’d better come in then.”
It was warm in the hut, so warm that she could smell the heat from the stove on which an old coffee pot stood.
“The coffee’s fresh. Help yourself if you like.” He wasn’t wearing the flying jacket, only the black overalls, and his beard seemed more tangled than ever. He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. She found a spare mug, poured coffee into it, and crossed to the table. The chart was the one covering Ireland to the Galway coast.